


Under a Violet Rain

by vaguekiwi



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anxiety, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Character Death, Dark Tony, Domestic Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Forced Marriage, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unhealthy Relationships, War, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 135,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25720189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguekiwi/pseuds/vaguekiwi
Summary: Peter has seen every colour of rain. He used to associate purple with happy memories. But now Anthony the Conqueror is on his doorstep and his kingdom is burning, all under a violet deluge.Peter knows when Anthony arrives it will mean certain death. But the conqueror has something else in mind.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Quentin Beck & Peter Parker
Comments: 625
Kudos: 539





	1. Grey Clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 warnings: War, major character death, some blood

The rain was violet when the kingdom fell.

In eighteen years, Peter had seen every colour of the rains. Blue showers at midnight turning new flowers silver; eerie splotchy greens in the winter which stained everything, from walls to hair to the snow; bright dawns with crimson water droplets melting into the golden sunrise; he had even seen a clear rain, once. When he was five the skies opened unexpectedly and he sprinted home from the stables, but stopped mesmerised at the transparent grey colour which flooded the kingdom.

Before now, before these senseless battles of empty ambition and cold steel, Peter had associated purple rains with laughter and soft spring grass emerging from a winter thaw. He could remember dancing in magenta light with his mother and wringing out lavender stains from his clothes with Ned and Michelle.

Now his eyes flickered over the pillars of smoke joining the grey clouds in the sky. Peter swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to breathe in the stench of blood on the air as he looked out the tower window.

Now purple rains would always be remembered this way, he thought. And this pale violet colour in particular, this would haunt his people for generations to come - those who were left anyway.

Anthony the Conqueror was known to decimate the populations he invaded. If Peter had to guess, there would be no national identity in this kingdom by the time the month closed. Everyone would be dead or sold.

And in the background of all of it, in the songs and the paintings which would tell this story, would be a splash of violet; impossible to scrub out from history, the same dark colour as the heart of a bruise.

“My Prince …”

Peter turned from the window, blinking the tears fiercely from his eyes. Michelle stood in the doorway, blood trickling from a wound on her temple. She lurched forward a step, her armour shredded. Peter hurried to her side, putting a hand on her chest and guiding her to the desk in his office. He sat down and tugged her into his lap, holding her close.

“Where are you hurt?” He asked urgently but she shook her head.

“I’m fine, it is just my head.” Peter knew she was lying, in no small part because there was no such thing as _just a head wound_. He suspected the darkening moisture around her stomach was another tale, but it was difficult to be sure what with how the rain had soaked her.

“My Prince.”

“MJ,” he grasped her hands in his, her fingers were far too cold.

“Peter,” her eyelids were fluttering and part of Peter knew he should help. Should fetch a blanket and a needle and thread. But some other part of him knew that this was over. Michelle was the last of his friends still alive and now she would be the last of them to die. The last before him anyway.

“It’s okay, you’re going to see everyone soon,” He promised, putting a hand against the wound on her head, stroking her hair back behind her ear. She smiled a bit, her weight slumped further into the chair, further against him. Peter supposed it might look awkward, wedged together as they were on the chair, but all he could think was that he wanted to hold her _even closer_ , wanted to reassure her even more.

Michelle tucked her head into his neck and whispered:

“He will make you an offer,”

Gooseflesh slid up Peter’s arms and on the back of his neck. He could feel a tremor in his lower back starting before she had even finished. He tangled his fingers with hers and rocked her tenderly, breathing in the clean scent of the beautiful rain outside.

“What do you mean?” He thought he knew, but asked anyway. Perhaps he was misinterpreting, perhaps he was wrong, perhaps the blood loss had addled her brain.

“Anthony, is coming here.”

“To kill me.” Peter said, but then realised it was less a statement and more a confirmation - _he is coming to kill me, right? So I can be with you and Mother and Father and Uncle Benjamin and Aunt May and Ned. He wouldn’t leave me alive, he wouldn’t do something so cruel._

“He is going to ask you to marry him,” Her voice was wavering, weakening, and she was becoming heavier against him. Peter felt his lip curl in disgust, rage ignited in his chest.

“I would never-“

“Please, Peter!” She was gasping now, fading ever faster and Peter was chiding himself for so awkwardly seating them like this, for not even thinking to bring her water or lay her down comfortably, “Peter it’s the only way. He will kill _everyone_ or -”

For a heart-stopping moment, Peter thought she was dead. But then he felt the shallow rise of her back under his fingers and he tucked his face against her hair.

His voice cracked: “MJ?”

“It’s the only way, Peter.” Peter wondered if he had ever seen Michelle cry before, as her body convulsed and hiccuped against him - perhaps aware of the horror of what she was asking him. She must know how unfair it was, for them to expect this of him, for him to carry out such a task without them.

“Give him your hand or your kingdom.”

He felt her lips on his collarbone, a chaste, dry kiss that fluttered against his skin. Peter closed his eyes and pulled her to his chest, willed her to move again with another weak breath. But she didn’t.

“Michelle?”

He wasn’t pleading with her, she was gone. He was pleading with nothing, with God, perhaps.

Peter sniffled and tucked her body against him, wondering how long it would take for Anthony to arrive and just run him through. He looked out the window where the sounds of battle had faded. Now all he could see was the torrent of purple rain, cut in half by a silver lightning bolt.

This wasn’t just about _his_ life but the lives of his people. The choice for _him_ was easy, but the weight of his responsibility was heavy now on his shoulders, heavy from the weight of the body in his lap, heavy in the crown staring back at him across the desk.

That _damn_ crown.

Gingerly, Peter stood up and set Michelle back on the chair, slumped as if maybe she was just sleeping. Then he picked up the crown and stormed to the tower window, lifting his arm high to fling it out to the flagstones below.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Peter froze, arm trembling and face flushing with heat like a child caught in the act. He swallowed a sob and turned to face the man who stood in the doorway.

Peter didn’t know what he was expecting: a monster, perhaps. A ten-foot-tall savage with a bare chest, wild eyes, trailing chains and entrails behind him. But Anthony didn’t look very different from any other ambassador or dignitary who might visit.

There was blood on his hands, literally, and streaks of crimson and purple littering his leather armour. But his hair was trimmed neatly, his back was straight, and his eyes were focused. He flexed his right hand, letting the sword he held catch the light.

His lips quirked into the hint of a smile, “I’m going to need that crown, kid.”

Peter’s jaw set into a grim line. Without a word he twisted, raised his arm, and flung the crown out the window. Immediately, the crystals and gems were soaked mauve, tarnished by the rain, and then the crown hurtled down to the stones far below. It would shatter at the bottom. Anthony might claim the country by title and by sword, but Peter would be damned if he let his family’s crown sit on the bastard’s head.

Peter turned back to Anthony with his chin high, looking him dead in the eye, barely containing his racing heart and ragged breathing.

Anthony’s smile merely got bigger.

“Now _that_ , kid. Was a mistake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This fic was inspired by a Royalty AU moodboard by Blushing-Starker on Tumblr. I highly recommend you check out their blog if you're a fan of the MCU!  
> Additionally, be cautious moving forward with this fic. We're going to tackle some questionable content and a very complicated messy relationship. Heed warnings at the top of chapters and take care of yourself first <3  
> Have a good one.  
> Grace


	2. Stone Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His kingdom fallen, Peter is more than prepared to die. What he is not prepared for, is the offer Anthony makes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 warnings: physical abuse, verbal (nonsexual) consent under duress, high tension, verbal argument, mention of death/dead character, mention of past blood/gore/physical injury

****The open windowsill was slick under Peter’s palm.

The window was too narrow to risk falling out, but still Peter panted as he was crowded against the wall, cold stone flushing against his back.

Anthony stood inches from him, lips curled in a sneer, one hand splayed on the stone beside his ear, the other crushing Peter’s jaw as he twisted the boy’s head this way and that.

“So … this is the _Coward Prince_.” Anthony mused. Peter’s cheeks grew warm at the nickname, but he held his tongue - he was pretty sure if he tried to talk it would be garbled and embarrassing anyway.

Anthony let go of him. “You don’t look like much to me,” he announced, wiping his hand on his armour as if he’d touched something filthy, “but I suppose that is to be expected from a boy who does not even join his men in battle.”

Peter risked uncoiling his body from the tense position. His back came out of its arch and he lifted his damp hand from the windowsill, letting it fall back to his side. They kept their eyes on one another, not blinking.

Peter’s thoughts drifted to weeks spent sleepless in medical tents, stitching wounds and easing the final minutes of dying soldiers. He could still hear whispered pleas and see streaked tears as they sawed through infected limbs. Could still taste how their rations had been sour - tainted by the clouds of disease and blood which choked the air.

Peter was no coward, and just because he did not raise a weapon in defence of his nation it did not make him weak. But he did not want to dignify the conqueror with a response.

Instead, he pivoted, “I’m not the only one defying expectations, Anthony.”

Anthony slapped him so hard that Peter’s head swung to the side and cracked against the edge of the window. He gasped, pain flaring and right ear buzzing from the blow. He blinked tears from his eyes but his body was seizing up again, tense and frightened and on edge.

As quickly as he’d been struck, Anthony’s hand was there, gently cupping Peter’s cheek. Peter froze, not knowing what to make of this. He expected Anthony to start squeezing, to trail his hand down Peter’s throat and strangle him, but he did no such thing. He thumbed at the tear hanging on Peter’s cheekbone, a satisfied smile making Peter’s stomach crawl.

“ _Anthony the Conqueror_ ,” The man sounded disgusted by his own epithet, “what a monster I’ve been painted as. You can call me _Tony_ , Peter.”

Peter felt his chest slump in relief when the man let go of him, turning to survey the office. It was a mess; reflecting the hurried movements of war. Books were tossed on shelves and the desk and on the floor; quills and ink and hasty letters were spilled across every surface. Michelle’s body was where they’d left it, the disturbing foreground to a horrifying work of art.

Anthony - _Tony_ \- walked to the door and Peter dared to hope he’d be left alone. But Tony stopped in the doorway and said something. An attendant entered then, went to Michelle’s body and put his hands under her arms, pulling her from the chair.

The sight of MJ being dragged across the floor, no doubt being taken to some mass grave or putrid burn pile, sent Peter flying across the room. He grabbed a letter opener from the desk and he would have stabbed the attendant in the arm with it - but he was knocked back by the hilt of a golden sword.

Peter skidded on the floor but Tony was not standing over him with anger etched into his face. He had knocked Peter back, true, but now he yanked his attendant by the hair.

“Show some damn respect!” Tony snarled, “ _lift_ the warrior and _carry_ her to her grave, man.”

The man shuffled and hurried to obey, and then they were both gone. Peter felt dizzy with the knowledge he would never see Michelle again, but Tony’s hand was on his shoulder already, pulling him to his feet and throwing him into the desk chair.

“Now that there are no more distractions … Peter, would you mind telling me _why_ you threw such a pretty crown out the window?”

Tony loomed over him and Peter found himself trembling. His voice shuddered a bit,mind reeling as he tried to piece this horrible man together. Slapping Peter and then holding him; knocking him to the ground but, apparently, giving a damn about his fallen enemies. Now standing above Peter again, voice low and controlled in a sequence of interrogation.

Tony cocked his head to the side, “an act of defiance?” He asked, “couldn’t stand the thought of your late uncle’s crown on my head?” Tony’s eyes burned like an amber gem in sunlight, powerful and unyielding. It made Peter think of firepits and castle forges - he had heard Tony was once upon a time a blacksmith, an engineer whose sharp mind helped to construct the very siege weapons which yielded so much success in battle.

“Cat got your tongue, Peter?”

Peter swallowed, his throat felt swollen and his mind was swimming. And why was this room so hot? They were high in the tower, the window let in cool air, but still sweat pressed Peter’s clothes against his skin and slithered down his neck.

“Peter, you -”

“Shut up!” Peter snapped. Tony blinked and Peter forged ahead, “stop saying my name you damn _murderer_! Obviously I don’t want you wearing our crown - ruining our name! I know you’ve come here to ask a question so ask it! Ask it so I can refuse and you can kill me!”

Tony turned his head away, drummed his fingers on the desk and straightened his back. He pretended to be absorbed with something in the wood.

“You are certain of your answer?” Tony asked.

“You have no reason to wed me!” Peter hissed, “if you need it that bad, then take me to bed before you kill me, but I will _never_ submit to matrimony with-”

Tony laughed hard, turning his glittering eyes back to Peter and cutting him off. “If I wanted to _fuck_ you Peter then we’d be done by now. I want to marry you because it is far easier than wasting time and coin to kill every last man, woman, and child in this kingdom!”

The cruelty of his language and the severity of his threats made Peter’s head throb and he wished - God, he wished MJ were here, she would have the right retort. Or Uncle Benjamin, he would know how to make these negotiations. Peter wasn’t ready to do this alone.

“You want to talk about ruined names?” Tony hissed, “then imagine the cursed name of the Parker family, their entire nation wiped out because of their coward prince. You want to protect your family’s legacy? Protect your people? Then stand at the altar. With your fidelity comes your nation’s.”

Peter fought to tear his eyes away from Tony’s gaze. He stuttered, grasping at other options, at some way out: “surely someone like you. You would want a wife, someone to give you heirs.”

“Ah - I’ve enough bastards as it is.” Tony walked away from him, apparently disinterested now in the conversation. “The fact is Peter, I don’t have time to quell petty unrest. So the sooner you say yes, the sooner your people will settle and I can move on from here.”

Peter twisted in his seat. Tony stood by the window, his gaze was focused outside. It was still raining, the light distorted and incandescent as the sun fought for dominance. In profile like this, Tony looked tired and thoughtful. Not fearsome or threatening.

“You could die, and your country would die with you.” Tony said, “bemoaning the frailty of their last rulers. _Or_ , you could give me your hand. Your people and lands would stay untouched, they would be blessed by the resources from my other territories. You could be heralded as a hero. One who made a shrewd and courageous choice for the good of his people.”

Tony turned a hand back to Peter, palm up, an open invitation. “Keep living here, keep ruling from here. Your life could go back to normal, Peter.”

That was rich, Peter thought. There had been too much death and bloodshed for even a semblance of normal to return. He had lost his family and closest friends to this madman, he would live the remainder of his life without them, tethered to their killer’s bed by a ring around his finger.

No, nothing would go back to normal for Peter. Not ever.

But maybe they could go back to normal for the people of his city, for the further villages, for everyone else. All Peter had to do was -

Tony’s hand was scarred, dried blood and sweat and dirt grated in Peter’s grip when he took it. He stood up slowly,his heartbeat elevating as this new reality sank in. Tony’s smile was thin and didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Okay,” Peter said, voice wavering, “You keep my people safe. Stop the bloodshed now. And I will marry you.”

Tony’s words slipped out like ice, “That’s it, kid.” The words squirmed in Peter’s gut, and he could tell Tony was laughing at him internally, still saw him as a coward, a child desperate for self-preservation.

But Peter would bide his time. He just needed to wait for the right moment. Just as the rains always turned, so too would Tony’s back.

Peter had never taken a life before. Knowing that his first would be Tony, he felt only a dull satisfaction in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. A number of folks wanted to see this continued. I was very hesitant given the "forced marriage" aspect but let's settle a couple of things:
> 
> 1\. We should all agree now that if someone invades our country, kills everyone we love, and then proposes; we should probably say no. Okay? Scout's honour, folks.
> 
> 2\. I was chatting with my friend about how I was hesitant to continue and eventually she said: "Hypothetically, if a fictional circumstance like this presented itself it’s cool to see how it might go"  
> And, well, she wasn't wrong. So we're forging ahead. We'll take this one chapter at a time and explore some challenging topics together. I'll add warnings in chapter notes and I encourage comments and discussion moving forward (and ideas! I'm still a bit hazy on the second half of the plot.)  
> Have a good one, you all are the best!  
> -Grace


	3. Blue Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes a new friend, and proves to Tony that he shouldn't be underestimated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 Warnings: None! Good old-fashioned tense political drama. (Please let me know if you think I should add something though!)

Four days passed before all weapons were sheathed. Four days before word reached each corner of the country of Arachne. Four days before resistance faltered, survivors went home, Peter’s reality sank in.

Those four days were bone dry. The grass yellowed with heat and the air was brittle to breathe in.

On day five, Peter woke up to the lash of rain outside the window. He stood, shifted the curtains aside, and looked out at dark blue sheets soaking the country.

He thought maybe it was the land’s way of crying for him, the sombre blue the same colour as grief.

When Peter joined Tony for breakfast though, the conqueror remarked it was a beautiful royal blue; an acceptance of new leadership.

He was joking, Peter knew. Tony didn’t really care about the rains, didn’t know about the bedtime stories children heard to explain the colours. But still, the attachment of any meaning in Tony’s favour unnerved Peter. He held his tongue though, ever reluctant to play his hand.

Peter didn’t complain when Tony claimed his aunt and uncle’s bedchamber. He didn’t say anything when he found his own door locked at night and glimpsed a sentry beneath the window. He remained silent when the types of food he was served changed to match the cuisine of Ferrum. He hardly blinked when he realised everyone in the castle - from knights to staff - seemed new, unknown to him.

He knew Tony was watching his reactions, even if he pretended to forget Peter was around most days. So Peter tried not to let anything show on his face or in his behaviour. Changes like this were expected, no matter how painful or unpleasant. So if Peter did need to grimace or hiss in anger or cry from grief he did it at night, alone, pressing himself into the bed so he wouldn’t be overheard.

After they had eaten breakfast, Tony would disappear to ‘settle affairs’. Peter thought he should probably be part of those conversations, but he was still cautious of the man’s violent streak. He hadn’t won ten wars in ten years just on luck or charm; he was ruthless. Peter could still remember the first time he’d heard of him.

_“A new ruler in Ferrum, there was a coup of some kind. One of Howard’s bastards took the throne.”_

Peter was still young then, cognisant of other nations and of the weight of a crown, but not entirely attuned to the nuances of it all.

His uncle had been disgusted not by Tony’s standing but by the ferocity with which he’d taken his father’s kingdom. How he’d dragged King Howard from the castle and thrown him to a rabid crowd. How quickly he turned around and invaded Ferrum’s neighbours. For a long time news had just been, _that Anthony’s won another territory._

Then two years ago Peter dared to ask, “do you think he will invade Arachne?”

“Of course not, what have we ever done to him?” Aunt May said, but she was fretting. She and Uncle Benjamin had both been worried, Peter could see that now. “Anyway we’ve nothing to offer but the scenery.”

Well, here they were and the scenery didn’t even seem to _interest_ Tony.

Peter ate slowly, but not as a part of any plan. He ate slowly because he wasn’t very hungry these days. He nibbled at white bread and unsalted eggs and moved things around his plate until he was disgusted with himself for wasting so much time. Then he went to the library.

Peter’s home had been turned against him. Every person in the castle was part of Tony’s army or entourage. But the library was in a separate building, nestled in the back of the castle grounds. It was old stone and glass against the city’s outer walls. Inside, Peter climbed wooden steps to the second floor with a low ceiling and snug shelves. He settled on a bench covered with thin blue sheets and white pillows. The bench was attached to a huge bay window overlooking empty plains behind the city. Eventually that wilderness led to the ocean; one could see a strip of blue on clear mornings, but those were rare.

Peter felt protected here, surrounded by wood with the rain singing against the window. Supposedly the library had been his mother’s idea, she had liked to sit curled on this bench with books and quills. Peter only had snapshot memories of his parents, but he liked to sit on the bench in the library and read.

He knew they weren’t the same books she had read; where she had studied history and was enamoured with fiction, Peter read about science and medicine. But still, when he made minute sketches or inked in notes in the margins, he felt connected to his family. He stood for something. He was linked to Mother’s hobbies and the Parker name.

“Um … hello?”

Peter started and banged his elbow against the window in his haste to twist around. He smeared ink on his pants and his mind raced back into the headspace of a conquered prince. But the man in the doorway looked nearly as surprised as Peter to see him there. He shuffled on his feet, wearing clothes that were a bit ill-fitting. His hair was mussed at the top and Peter was struck by the thought that his face was _gentle_ , dark brown eyes curious and earnest.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone up here.” The man cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, like Peter made him nervous.

“It’s okay, I wasn’t either.”

“I’m Bruce, it’s nice to meet you.” Bruce lurched forward with his hand out and Peter took it, feeling reassured by the man’s presence, his firm handshake.

“Nice to meet you,” Peter echoed, wondering how long it would take Bruce to realise who he was. He wanted to make this last.

If Bruce was bothered by Peter’s refusal to share his name, he didn’t show it. He sat down next to Peter and gestured toward the stairs. “Things are a bit crazy out there,” he said, Peter assumed he meant in the castle or Arachne - anywhere that wasn’t this sheltered library. “Figured I could use a break.”

“Of course,” Peter said. Bruce’s eyes lingered on the volumes Peter had on his lap, tracing the lines Peter had drawn of veins in the arm.

“Are you a doctor?” Bruce asked.

“I uhh - I helped in some of the medical tents.”

Bruce nodded at that, “Tony had me help there too, when things would get bad. But I’m more interested in stuff like that.” Bruce twisted around to look out the window. Peter didn’t understand what he meant until he saw the reflection of cobalt in Bruce’s eyes and realised he must mean the rain and its colours.

“Quite the phenomenon,” Peter agreed, lingering on _when things would get bad_. Had Ferrum’s army struggled in its conquest? It always seemed to Peter like they cleaved through their enemies with hardly any casualties. And Bruce’s casual address of _Tony_ , how close were they?

“What does your work involve?” Peter asked, eyes flitting to the stairs and the world beyond their corner of the library, “in the - in the _transition_?” _Destruction, obliteration, dismantling of my name and country_.

“Oh, whatever Tony finds for me to work on. I know enough about economics and finances. But mostly I’m interested in … well,” Bruce’s eyes were out the window again, Peter could see that he was thinking hard, mind buried in chemistry or perhaps physics - subjects he could converse on, but Bruce probably truly _understood_ them. It was thrilling, to see someone distracted into silence by their studies, by something they loved. That used to happen with him and Ned and Michelle.

“I’d heard stories about rain in Arachne growing up, but it was talked about as a scary thing.” Bruce went on, “I heard red rain burned and blue froze your skin.”

“It’s just rain,” Peter said, “the same every time except for the hue.”

Bruce repeated slowly: “Every time …”

Peter winced. He’d said the wrong thing, indicated he was not from Ferrum and not another face in thousands of Tony’s company.

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised Tony kept any of King Benjamin’s staff around.” Bruce smiled sheepishly, “are you from-”

The front door to the library opened with a crack and slammed back on its hinges. Peter and Bruce listened to the thunk of footsteps as a small party entered and someone shouted:

“Prince Peter?”

Before they could even answer, footsteps were running up the steps and two knights stood looking at Bruce and Peter. Immediately one turned, “he’s up here, milord!”

Bruce exhaled a very soft laugh and stood up, sidling away as Tony mounted the steps. He didn’t look angry, just satisfied at having tracked Peter down. Tony marched straight toward him and dropped a stack of papers in his lap.

“You need to sign these.” He said.

“What are they?” Peter asked, glancing over the first page with his stomach growing cold.

“Nothing you’d understand,” Tony sneered, “just sign them.”

But Peter did understand them. The crown prince of a country, he’d been taught to negotiate legal documents. He had even entertained a prenuptial discussion with his uncle - an engagement to one Elizabeth Allan-Toomes that fell through. It was not the existence of a prenuptial contract that angered Peter, that was commonplace and expected in royal families. It was the fact that Tony expected him to sign it without reading, without any negotiation or semblance of a voice.

Bruce was looking pointedly away from them, but Peter shifted under the weight of Tony’s gaze and the half dozen men who’d accompanied the king to track Peter down.

Peter had held his tongue through a lot in five days. But as he skimmed the first couple pages he could feel Tony’s patience wearing, and he didn’t like some of what he read. His spine pricked at the memory of Tony slapping him, his head slamming against the wall, years of hearing about violent executions and brutal sieges.

“I’m sorry,” Peter looked up at Tony, “I need to read this first, and we need to talk about it.”

Tony snorted and crossed his arms. He eyed one of his soldiers and the man smirked, Peter thought maybe Tony was trying to intimidate him, trying to gesture out an unspoken threat. “What is there to talk about? You have agreed to marry me in exchange for your countrymen’s lives. You’re not in a position to bargain here.”

“I understand,” Peter said, conscious that he should not sound condescending or impatient, “but please listen. We will be married, what happens if you die? Does my country retain its amnesty?”

Tony’s eyes burned and his smile dropped, “assuming I die of natural causes, _of course_.”

Peter untucked his knees and put his feet flat on the floor. He still didn’t stand, didn’t want to make anyone pull a weapon or panic. “Fine, that protects you from me.” Peter acknowledged, “but I want my people safe if you die of unnatural causes due to a third party. I’m assuming your battles don’t end here, what if you fall to the next nation you invade? My neighbour King Steven is not a force to be taken lightly.”

Tony hesitated, “fine, I will add that.” He said, but Peter could see his mind was turning. He didn’t want to hesitate too long but also did not want to give in too readily to anything Peter demanded.

“Good,” Peter stood up and handed the papers back to Tony. Tony’s lips quirked and the soldier he’d exchanged a look with, a man with a thick beard and stormy blue eyes, took it from Peter.

“I suppose you have other concerns?” Tony asked dryly, looking at Peter with his eyebrows raised, his lips a thin line. Peter hesitated, not knowing how much he was supposed to take, how far was too far to push.

“I do.” He admitted eventually, cautiously giving control of the conversation back to Tony. Tony nodded and straightened his back. He tugged on his tunic.

“Fine,” he sniffed, “then come back to the castle and we’ll work everything out.”

Peter nodded and followed them out of the library. When Peter passed him, Bruce had his head tilted back toward the window to watch the rain. It looked like he was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As we continue, I'm fleshing out the world they're in (we're averaging like one sentence per chapter about Tony's backstory, lol. But also I named the countries, built the world just a bit, etc..) I'm afraid it's going to be a little while before Tony and Peter like - let alone tolerate - one another but in the meantime I hope it's okay that I explore some other characters, help Peter process, and flesh things out.
> 
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	4. Silk Curtains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in his own head with no one to turn to, Peter's anxieties begin to mount.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 warnings: Brief non-con (about a thousand words in, it's a dream, all in italics, and separated by break lines if you want to skip/skim.) Some symptoms of anxiety/long-term stress.

It took three full days for Peter to be satisfied with the contract Tony’s scribes produced. Being in his uncle’s office with Tony and a handful of aides from Ferrum left Peter feeling drained and uneasy. It didn’t help that Peter felt so alone; for every inch he eked out for himself, Tony was able to negotiate a mile. And Peter wasn’t stupid, at the end of the day all of this was _given_ to him by his -

By his fiancé.

God.

If Tony really wanted to, he could flaunt some steel and put an end to any of Peter’s whims. But it seemed to satisfy the man to let Peter retain just a bit of control. So while Peter struggled to show he was smart enough to keep up with legal jargon, Tony sat on the other end of the desk and pulled the strings and dictated what was finally written down, all the while his own men whispering in his ear. No one was on Peter’s side, that was a reality etching itself into his chest and exhausting his stamina.

The long days meant Peter didn’t get back to his nook in the library until late the night the contract had been finalised. He was surprised to mount the steps and find Bruce there, mulling over two books and glancing repeatedly out the window.

“Still studying the rain?”

Bruce jumped but smiled warmly when he recognised Peter. “I probably seem like an idiot now,” Bruce laughed, “but I don’t suppose the Prince of Arachne has any light to shed on the subject.”

Peter shook his head and sat down, pulling his own stack of books and quills from underneath the bench. “My uncle used to say there’s no shedding light on the whims of dark clouds,” he said. Bruce smiled at that, seeming to repeat the phrase in his head, mulling it over.

“That’s not a bad answer,” he conceded.

“It was never quite good enough for me,” Peter answered and Bruce nodded at that too, a silent claim to understanding, a mental kinship between them.

“Did Tony come around to your terms?”

“The ones that mattered,” Peter admitted, wondering how much he should say about Tony around this man. But Bruce didn’t press the subject of the man in the castle.

Instead he asked, “how are you - umm - holding up, with everything that’s happened?”

Peter’s tongue lodged in his throat and he hesitated, shocked that anyone form Ferrum would bother to ask this question. He must have looked offended because Bruce hastily added, “I don’t mean to pry, it’s just - our invasion was so fast. So I was thinking, in just a couple months you’ve lost your family, your country, probably some friends.”

“Right,” Peter nodded and swallowed. He thought of his pillow, always damp in the morning where his cheek had been. And the negotiations of the past couple days, how flushed and ill he felt through it all. But what was he supposed to do? Tell this - this foreigner - this _friend_ of Tony’s - _I’m crying myself to sleep at night and constantly think I’m going to throw up but mostly I’m fine._

No, that wasn’t an option.

“It’s been as hard as you would expect,” Peter answered evasively. Lit by a dozen candles and the moon outside, the light shifted in the library and Peter turned his eyes out the window. It was drizzling, but he couldn’t tell what colour it was. Thinking about his uncle and his lost kingdom, the power he had never appreciated when he’d had it, Peter felt grief climbing in his throat. For a moment he cursed Bruce’s presence, because otherwise he would have felt comfortable weeping alone in the library. But then, Bruce had as much right as anyone else to be there. Bruce was the first person to ask of Peter’s welfare, something had to be said for that.

“Peter?”

Bruce sounded genuinely concerned, and that made everything worse somehow.

“I’m sorry,” Peter stood up sharply, throwing his books away in haste, “I’m just very tired, I’m going to bed.”

He didn’t say goodnight as he hurried back down the steps. Bruce didn’t call after him. He sprinted between the library and the castle and to his rooms, slamming the door shut and collapsing onto his bed.

Only then did he see the citrine splotches on his sleeves, it was a yellow rain. That always felt strange to Peter, it made the world feel tired and pallid. But Michelle had loved yellow rains - yellow and black. She always thought black was nice because if there were unsavoury or mixed stains on their clothes, they could use black to blot it out.

Peter could imagine the black of her armour and the damp spots, the violet rain had not shown up but the red of blood was thicker than sweat or water. Blood stained different from rain. There had been blood on her stomach and trickling down her temple. A wound to the gut must have been incredibly painful, but still she used her final moments to get to Peter.

Had his uncle been in pain?

Peter didn’t know; he hadn’t been there. Uncle Benjamin had left to negotiate peace, armed with an offer to let Tony keep the half of the country he had already sieged. The king had just wanted Arachne, the remainder of it at that point, to be left in peace. It was Peter’s understanding that his uncle had died that day; seeking an end to what he deemed senseless violence.

Peter sniffled and put a hand over his mouth to smother his sob, not wanting to cry too loudly. He couldn’t let this become a habit. It would not do to let himself cry at night because soon even the bedroom would not be his alone.

* * *

_Peter cried out and arched his back to seek a relief that didn’t come. Tony’s mouth stifled his shriek of pain as the man pushed in merciless, hard, too fast._

_“Plea -!” Peter whined and panted for breath, “s-slow down,” Tony’s grip on his hips just became tighter, pressing splotchy bruises into his thighs._

_“Don’t deny me what’s mine,” Tony whispered against his neck and bit down until Peter sobbed, “you belong to_ me _, right? In sickness and health. To love, cherish, and obey?”_

_Peter ached and shuddered but didn’t argue. He swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded._

_“Yes,” he whimpered._

_“Good. Now shut up and let me finish.”_

* * *

Peter woke up feeling cold and sick, dawn slanting through silk curtains he hadn’t bothered to draw. The nausea wasn’t new; the nightmare was. Peter swung his legs over the bed, chest heaving for air. He winced as clenched muscles loosened and his body untangled itself from the bed.

He changed as quickly as he could because of the cold. Peter hesitated with the closet door open, his eyes darted to the window and a cloudless sky. Then he picked out a woollen grey cardigan and drew it tight around his shoulders. Ned and Michelle had bought it for him a few years ago. Putting it on now felt cosy and soft, and it had a smell that he couldn’t place - the smell that his home was _meant_ to have, maybe.

Peter went sluggishly to breakfast. Tony was halfway done when he arrived, and didn’t say anything when Peter entered. Peter took his seat, thinking about the Tony in his dream. It felt like there was a new current of energy between them, something unfamiliar and frightening. What was that, fear? Did Tony feel it too?

“Peter?”

Peter tore his eyes from his plate to look at Tony, whose eyebrows were raised. Peter didn’t like that look, the curiosity without any of the anger or ferocity. It felt too playful for such a monster.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, “what did you say?”

Tony’s cheeks fluttered, half a smile.

“I asked how you slept … I take it not well?”

“Looking forward to keeping me up all night?” Peter snapped and Tony’s eyebrows flew down, drawing together tightly.

“I’m sorry?”

Peter’s head throbbed, a sharp pulse right behind his eyes that made them water.

“I’m sorry - I didn’t - I just meant -” Peter’s voice faltered in his throat.

“Are you feeling ill?” Tony asked, ostensibly offering a way out, an explanation for such an inappropriate outburst. But Peter just shook his head.

“No, I’m sorry I just - uhmm …” Peter felt heat flushing his cheeks even though he had nothing to apologise for between the two of them, “could I go into the city today?” He blurted out.

The request must have caught Tony off guard, because he ducked his chin a little bit to focus on his plate.

“Into the city,” he repeated, he drank a big gulp of coffee, “for what?”

 _So I can breathe!_ Peter wanted to gasp but he just said, “I think it would be good for me to … exercise a bit more.”

Tony didn’t seem satisfied with that, he sat back and folded his hands in consideration. Peter supposed he couldn’t blame him, it was a flimsy justification and there were plenty of potential risks, with Tony not knowing what was going on in Peter’s head these days.

Peter was resigning himself to a day of feverish writing in the library - anything to get his energy out - when Tony clapped and stood: “okay, you can go.” Tony held his hand out and Peter took it, letting Tony pull him to his feet. He tried to ignore the way touching Tony’s hand made his palm flare and prickle in pain. Tony steadied him and looked straight into his eyes, almost like a challenge to see if Peter would look away.

“You want to get out for a while, away from me? Fine, I understand.”

Peter’s protests faltered on his lips when Tony went on, “but you’ll bring one of my men with you as an escort.”

Peter nodded hurriedly, an elation setting into the back of his head at the freedom of the day ahead. Surely once he was out of Tony’s presence, once his stomach wasn’t coiled at every turned corner, surely he would feel better then.

Peter was about to suggest maybe Bruce could come with him but Tony was already waving to someone at the door.

“Beck, can you accompany Peter?”

Peter’s eyes flickered to the blue-eyed soldier; he was with Tony often. Had been at the library a few days ago and often in the office. He was someone Tony trusted. Beck inclined his head in agreement, and turned his torso slightly to face Peter.

“Have fun, Prince Peter.” Tony’s hand squeezed his shoulder a bit too tightly, “don’t do something you’ll regret.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> I'm so sorry about that nightmare :( but I imagine anyone in this situation would have some anxieties about the physical relationship they're stepping into. I've tried to highlight it clearly but please let me know if I ought to update tags/format differently/etc.. (For example, I'm not sure if something that's just in one scene in one chapter should become a tag for the whole fic?)
> 
> The good news is in Chapter 5 Peter will get to see some friends and get some fresh air :)  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	5. Fresh Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter reunites with a friend, finds that Beck is not what he seems, and discovers something unsettling about the state of his country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 warnings: Verbal and physical fight and namecalling (not main pair,) brief physical abuse (main pair,) so much crying, brief mention of blood, descriptions of wounds/light gore.  
> Things are going to look up!! I promise!!

Peter didn’t know what he was expecting to see in the city. Maybe crying children and burned homes. Bodies swinging from nooses or locked in cages in the sky. The sort of carrion and destruction that had filtered through stories of the places Tony sieged.

But the streets were clean and the buildings intact. There weren’t a lot of people out, but Peter supposed most folks would be at work. Beck stayed close behind him; those who looked at Peter watched him cautiously, like they didn’t know what they were supposed to do or say.

In their position, Peter probably would have done the same.

Still, he was glad to see the city in working order. He was glad there was no violence and that blood had not been spilled in the streets. He was glad there was no curfew so everyone could continue to work and provide for their families. Part of him numbly realised that this was, perhaps, _thanks_ to him. Thanks to his agreement to marry Tony.

He wasn’t trying to go anywhere in particular. He trudged along the cobblestones and eyed the citizens he saw, they all looked healthy and unharmed. But when he turned a corner and the hot scent of fresh-baked bread struck his nose, Peter smiled.

And then: “Peter!”

He had to throw his hand out to still Beck, who advanced with a hand on his sword when the girl threw her arms around Peter’s neck.

“Oh my God, Peter!” Betty’s weight dragged him down as her feet lifted off the ground. He put his arms on her back, pulling her as close to his chest as he could. They had never hugged like this, never been close like this. But it felt right - it was something of a relief, actually, to hold someone. Peter hadn’t realised how long it had been since he’d been touched, maybe even back to the day he held Michelle.

Tony’s touches - hitting Peter, throwing a ream of papers into his lap, a hard squeeze on his shoulder - were different. Those made Peter’s nerves flare, left him feeling frayed and uncertain.

Betty just wanted to hold her friend again. Just wanted the barest hint of normalcy. That was something Peter understood.

He tried to tell her hello, to say her name, but his voice cracked in his throat and didn’t cut very far past his lips.

“Peter,” She finally let go of him, stepped back to look up at him with tears in her eyes, “I didn’t know what to believe - I really thought you were dead - I was …” her voice faltered and she brushed the tears clinging to her eyelashes. Peter reached out unbidden and took her hand in his. Betty sniffed and let him hold her hand out flat; four eyes lingered on the diamond, then flickered away.

Betty tucked her hair behind her ears and sniffed, “is it true you’re supposed to have one of these now, too?” she managed a breathy laugh, twisting the engagement ring anxiously on her finger, “you could always take mine, it’s not like I need it anymore.”

The joke was painful, raw, and flat. Peter thought of the day Ned had first showed him that ring, put a finger to his lips when Betty joined them. The dinner where he’d knelt by her side, the fear and excitement and stress in his eyes.

The joy when she said yes.

Their celebration had been cut short by the blare of a trumpet; a wounded soldier arriving from the border.

When they’d both been quiet a bit too long, Betty tilted her head toward the bakery, “do you umm … want to come inside?” Peter nodded and she started for the doorway.

Peter was conscious of Beck following them, but since the soldier didn’t protest he didn’t think much of it. Inside the bakery, a woman was balancing two trays of bread across her arms. She heard the door and called,

“Elizabeth? Where did you go, I need your he - oh, Prince Peter!”

Mrs. Brant’s blond hair was faded and pinned up at the nape of her neck, trickling to lines of silver at her scalp.

Betty hurried around the counter to lift the trays from her mother, who looked uncertainly between Peter and Beck.

“I’m happy to see you safe, Peter. Here, let me get you both something to eat.”

Peter sat down at the counter. Beck hovered back in the doorway but Mrs. Brant waved toward him impatiently, “you too, sir. Even soldiers have stomachs, doesn’t matter which side they were on.” So Beck walked forward. He shook Mrs. Brant’s hand when she offered it.

“I’m Eleonore Brant, may I ask who has the privilege of keeping an eye on our crown prince?”

Crown prince wasn’t the right title anymore, Peter didn’t think. But no one corrected her. For the first time that day, Beck smiled. “You can call me Quentin, ma’am.” And his voice was smooth and earnest. His eyes crinkled kindly while Mrs. Brant’s gaze raked him up and down. Then she nodded and began to fuss over slices of fruit cake and glasses of milk.

“It’s been so long Peter, I feel like I’ve hardly seen you since all this,” Mrs. Brant waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the wall, “Elizabeth said you - that you were with Edward when …” She trailed off and Betty began to study her right hand intently.

“Yes,” Peter said, “I - we - the team, that is, it wasn’t just me. We, umm, operated on him twice but … Ned was hurting, so I stayed with him overnight and he …” Peter wiped his eyes, “he didn’t wake up.”

Betty hiccuped softly but masked it behind a cough. Mrs. Brant nodded stoically.

Peter pivoted the conversation, “how’s Bennett?”

“He’s good,” the mention of her son - alive and well - made Mrs. Brant’s features soften. “He spends more time swinging the cane around than using it but, he says the pain at night has lessened.”

“It used to keep him up,” Betty added, “but lately he’s sleeping better.”

“I can bring some medicine, if you mix it with tea or water and have him drink it at night that will help.” Peter said, “or, I can show you what plants to look for to gather them yourselves.”

Both women nodded and Beck spoke up. Even though he was right next to him, Peter nearly jumped because he’d forgotten Beck was there.

“I didn’t know you were a medic,”

“I just helped,” Peter shook his head, “I never had any formal training. I just -”

“He saved my brother’s life,” Betty jumped in, “saved him from this terrible infection and then helped him learn to walk again. Just because you never really trained Peter, I think you sell yourself short.”

Mrs. Brant nodded slowly, clearing their empty plates, “every hand was of value on those battlefields, Prince Peter. Yours more so than others.”

Peter ducked his head and mumbled something, but doubt prickled at the base of his spine. Were they really of any value? Arachne had still lost. Ned had still died. It had all led to this twisted siege, the war still tipped in Ferrum’s favour.

“Hey,” Peter jumped a bit when Beck touched him, put a hand on his forearm. He looked over at the soldier, who gave a reassuring smile, “It’s okay to be proud of your actions, despite the outcome. It sounds like you did a great service to your people. Anybody you helped save, you changed their lives and the lives of the people they love. Don’t apologise for the good you’ve managed.”

Peter waited uncertainly, half-expecting Beck to add something hurtful or cruel. But he just pulled his hand away and turned to the Brants.

“That cake was delicious Eleonore, thank you.”

Mrs. Brant smiled at him and Peter blinked. Just because Beck was from Ferrum, just because he was in service to Tony, that didn’t really make him a bad person. He was serving his country, earning his living, the same as anyone else. Peter had heard stories of Ferrum’s army burning and ravishing senselessly in their conquest, but then - that didn’t need to apply to each person.

“Well Quentin, if I can’t bother you for a moment I wonder if you could give me a hand with some barrels in the back. Bennett can’t lift like he used to,”

Beck hesitated on the edge of his seat, frozen between a good-natured will to help and his job. Then he nodded and said, “if it’ll only take a moment,” and hurried around the counter and followed Mrs. Brant to the back of the shop.

Once they were out of sight, Peter felt his shoulders relax a bit. Betty smiled shyly at him.

“Is he scary?” She asked, leaning over the counter. “Anthony?” Her voice was low, like they both acknowledged that these were secret confessions, something not even the walls should know about.

“He’s …” Peter hesitated, searching for the right word. “Calculated,” he said eventually, “He’s smart, so it keeps me on my toes. I need to say and do the right things, push the right places.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Betty pouted, then reached out to touch the edge of his sleeve, “is this the sweater MJ and Ned got you? It’s terribly soft, do you know where-”

Behind them the door opened and someone called:

“Hey Betty, are you already sold out of …” The voice trailed off like they were surprised by what they saw. Peter twisted in his seat, not recognising the boys who had entered. There were three of them around his age. The one in the middle was the one who’d spoken, he had short black hair and a muscular frame, a soldier. He stared and stared, looking for all the world like he’d seen a ghost.

Peter couldn’t hold his gaze and looked away, fiddling with his sleeves.

Betty prompted after another stunned moment, “Bradley? What can I get for you?”

Bradley’s shock twisted into a menacing sneer. One of the boys with him said something and Bradley stalked forward, moving with an urgency that made Peter scurry to his feet to face him.

“ _Prince Peter_.” Bradley spat each syllable and Peter winced when they were face to face. Bradley was taller than him, eyes burning. “Speaking of selling out, here’s the royal whore himself.”

Peter’s mouth opened before his brain could even think of something to say. The _what_?

“Brad!” Betty gasped and one of the boys snickered, “You can’t talk to him like that!”

“Who says I can’t?” Bradley snapped, “I didn’t get nearly ripped in two just for this fucking _coward_ to crawl into bed with the enemy!” Bradley’s hand wrapped around the collar of Peter’s shirt and yanked him closer. “You betrayed your whole damn country you -” His voice shook with anger, he couldn’t even finish his insult.

Peter’s voice was trembling too, desperate to de-escalate before Beck came back. He was scared of what might happen if Beck thought Bradley had threatened Peter. “I - I - I’m sorry you feel that way, b - but I s - swear I did it for -”

“For us?” Bradley cut him off. He swung around, dragging Peter with him and half-throwing him across the room. Peter lurched in the direction of the door. “You didn’t do _shit_ for us!” Bradley advanced and put both hands on Peter’s chest, shoving him further. “Your uncle defended us - like a king is supposed to! _You_ sat in that castle for three months -” The tirade stopped when Bradley took a breath to punch Peter in the face. Peter yelped and reeled to the side, one of the other boys caught him and shoved him back for the next blow, “then you sucked that murderer’s dick just to save your own skin!” Bradley hit him again, higher up on the temple and Peter’s head rang. He lurched straight backward this time and stumbled in the doorway.

“Brad!” Maybe they heard shouting or a scuffle but there was a small crowd gathered in the street. Someone shouted, “he’s your prince!”

“Not mine!” Brad snarled and loomed over Peter. Peter looked up at him, eyes frantically dodging back toward the doorway because he needed to stop Beck if the soldier came out here. Brad touched the hem of his shirt and lifted it up halfway, so Peter could see the jagged white scar across his diaphragm. It crawled in a vicious zigzag around his ribcage. Peter could imagine the blood and the thrashing, Brad wasn’t the only one one to sustain a wound like that, he was just a lucky survivor.

“ _My_ prince would have died before submitting his whole country to tyranny!”

“I’m sorry!” Peter gasped again, “but you weren’t there and he promis -” Peter gagged when Brad’s boot kicked him in the stomach, causing him to double over. His stomach heaved but he didn’t throw up right away - no doubt that would be a dreadful sight for the people of the city, to see Peter beaten and vomiting in the street. That wasn’t what he had survived for, that wasn’t the legacy he wanted to provide for his family.

While Peter was still regaining his bearings, something happened above him. He heard steel sliding and a shout. Brad swore and then the crowd was scattering.A big hand was on Peter’s shoulder and pulling him upward, another hand on his back and he heard a low, urgent voice in his ear:

“Up, kid, come on, go, walk, this way, _walk_.” And he obeyed automatically, let Beck push and guide him away from the bakery, around the corner and back in the direction of the castle.

Beck kept one hand twisted in the sleeve of Peter’s sweater and the other tucked against his back. Peter realised only when they were ducking back through the gates and had reached a small side door that he was crying. The sobs mangled their way up his stomach and out of his throat. Just inside the castle, in a dim hallway, Beck let go of Peter and he fell to his knees, knuckling over his eyes to try to get himself to stop crying.

Beck stood over him, fidgeting nervously and looking around. Once he decided they were alone, Beck knelt next to Peter and took his wrists.

“God, kid.” Beck breathed and put out a trembling hand to brush the hair from Peter’s face. His hand came away with spots of blood on his skin and Peter shook his head, tears clumping in his eyelashes as he gasped:

“What did you do?”

Beck paused a moment, bewildered.

“What did _I_ do?”

“To - To Bradley. What did you - did you hurt him?” Peter gasped and finally his tears began to subside, into tiny hiccups.

“To - the man who did this? I just pulled him off of you kid, I put him on the ground. Maybe he’s got some scrapes but he’s fine - God, you’re worried about _him_?”

With the knowledge that Bradley was safe, Peter took in a shaky breath and thought maybe his heartbeat was slowing down a touch.

Peter sniffed and Beck thumbed away two more tears on his cheeks, helping to clear his face.

They were both silent, a bit too close to each other considering their allegiances. At least that’s how Peter felt. Apparently his people thought he was in bed - in every sense of the phrase - with Tony and everyone from Ferrum. So maybe there was nothing wrong with letting Beck put a hand on his knee and soothe the bruises on his face.

They were both silent for a very long time, and then Peter whispered: “are you going to tell him?”

Beck sighed, “hell kid, I have to.”

“No you don’t,” Peter shook his head vehemently, “you _don’t_ he’ll - ” Peter had no idea what Tony would do, but he was sure it wouldn’t be good.

Beck shook his head helplessly, he made a vague gesture to Peter’s face as if to say _how else will you explain that?_ “I’m sorry. I have to. Come on, we’ll go now. It’ll blow over by dinner.”

Peter thought that wasn’t true, but he let Beck pull him to his feet and followed him slowly down the hall. They didn’t pass anyone on the way to the office.

Uncle Benjamin’s office.

A man who Bradley admired.

 _Your uncle defended us - like a king is supposed to_.

Was Peter weak?

Was he fulfilling this damaging persona of the _Coward Prince_? Dragging his family’s name and all of Arachne down with him?

Should he have just made Tony kill him?

At the office, Beck knocked and a page came out to meet them. The man looked at Beck, took one peek at Peter, and then held the door wide open for them to enter.

Beck and Peter both shuffled in, awkward as they stood side by side. Peter had to wonder which of them would be in more trouble, and found that he almost admired Beck for going through with this, with telling Tony. Maybe it was true they had no choice, but he had barely hesitated.

Tony stood in profile to the window, bright afternoon light flooding the office. Peter’s breath caught in his throat, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. There was something about Tony, forehead creased in thought as he spun a quill between his fingers, lips and nose twitching while he ruminated on the paper he held. He wore black like usual, tailored neatly to his frame. He wasn’t just a powerful fighter or a genius inventor; his mind was quick, his eyes focused, the line of his jaw and trim of his beard gave him an air of calm, controlled elegance.

Peter didn’t know if he’d ever been more scared in his life.

After a moment, a servant in the corner of the room cleared her throat and Tony’s head snapped up. He looked bewildered for a moment, like he was trying to remember where he was. Then he caught sight of Beck, and a moment later Peter.

It was the longest five seconds of Peter’s life.

And then Tony’s voice was quiet steel: “Beck, Peter, stay here. Everyone else …”

He didn’t even need to finish his direction. The door opened and shut three times to let four people out. And then it was just the three of them. Tony dried the tip of his quill and laid it flat on the desk, rolling up the paper he’d been holding. When no one said anything for a while, Tony asked mildly:

“So … which one of you is going to explain to me why the Prince of Arachne, who is supposed to stand at the altar in a month, is _black and blue_ in my office?”

Peter said: “it was my fault-”

At the same time that Beck gasped: “I’m sorry, milord, this is entirely my fault-”

Tony cut them both off by holding his hand up. They both fell silent, all eyes trained on Tony’s hand like it could grant salvation.

Not salvation, but absolution certainly.

His hand came down slowly, finger extending so he was pointing straight at Peter from across the room.

“Speak.”

Peter took a shaky breath, “I took us to a friend’s bakery and a few people came in. One of them was a soldier in my - in Arachne’s army and he was angry about … about our engagement. He hit me.”

“And where, pray tell, were _you_?” Tony’s gaze swivelled to Beck who ducked his head.

“I stepped out, milord. I was helping the baker when her daughter called for me and I went to help.”

Tony nodded slowly, looking down at the desk. He had both hands on it, poised on the pads of his fingers like they were holding something down - maybe holding himself back.

He fixed his eyes on Peter, squinting: “And the man who did this?”

Peter started to answer when Beck interrupted:

“Disposed of, milord.”

Peter swallowed the truth and hoped nothing in his gaze betrayed that Beck had just lied. Tony nodded.

“Good, because we don’t need any more dissent. And we don’t need _anyone_ to think they can get away with injuring a member of Ferrum’s royal family.”

Beck nodded resolutely. Peter’s mind was stuck somewhere in the phrase _a_ _member of Ferrum’s royal family_. He was going to marry into this, into a legacy of bloodshed and fear. He would be accorded all the wealth and protection - and all the violence and chains - that came with … with being _a member of Ferrum’s royal family_. Peter blinked a few times, feeling woozy.

Tony breathed out hard through his nose, a deep sigh that brought Peter back to reality. Beck was still standing very carefully at attention, hardly moving a muscle. Peter started to think maybe the worst was over - maybe by lying about Bradley’s fate then Tony would be satisfied.

Tony pulled back the cuffs of his sleeves and shrugged in Peter’s direction, “Okay, it’s not working out. So that won’t happen again.”

Beck’s shoulders sagged in relief. Peter, in contrast, felt his body key up.

“Wh - what do you mean?” His voice trembled and Tony rolled his gaze back to Peter, eyes narrowing to slits. “ _What_ won’t happen again?” Peter pressed on, feeling brave now. Perhaps because, hell, could anything _worse_ happen today? “Me leaving here?” He prompted, walking toward the desk until he stood just across from it, not far from Tony. “You’re going to keep me locked in this castle the rest of my life? You can’t do that!”

“I’m sorry,” Tony sneered, “I didn’t realise you had any _damn say_ in what I can and can’t do.” He held his hands out, open and empty like he could offer no recourse, “If you wanted to be able to wander off, should’ve put it in the contract.”

Peter held his ground. He didn’t know why he felt so courageous but his eyes didn’t leave Tony when he spat: “I didn’t realise we needed to stipulate where we spend our days. Maybe we’ll need to revisit, if you’re planning on any more of those _bastards_.”

Peter dropped when Tony hit him, the man’s fist colliding with the side of his head where Bradley had struck him barely an hour ago. Peter hit the edge of the desk as he fell but then Tony’s hand was fisted in his sweater, yanking him up and throwing him against the wall. Peter heard the fabric tear and choked down his sob. He turned but Tony put one hand over his wrist and the other in Peter’s hair, pinning him to the wall, slamming his head again on the stone.

Vision swimming, Peter blinked past his tears at Tony’s face. Something about this, about Tony’s weight against him, about the grip in his hair, flooded Peter’s legs with fear. Somewhere in the back of his head he remembered his nightmare. The Prince of Arachne, to stand at the altar in a month. In a month sign over his life. His country. His bed.

Peter’s knees buckled and he let the tears dash over his cheeks, not bothering to fight them anymore. It didn’t matter what Tony thought of him, his people hated him. They saw him as a traitor.

Tony looked stricken when Peter went limp and began to cry. He let go of him suddenly, muttered a soft “oh umm,” and stepped back. With nowhere to go but down, Peter started to buckle onto his knees so Tony stuck his arms out and held him up. They stood with a weird amount of space between each other, Peter’s weight leaning awkwardly as he cried. The anger eased out of Tony.

Tony started to say: “I’m sor -” But then stopped himself.

A moment passed while Peter sobbed. Beck tried to not look at the two of them. Tony gathered his thoughts.

“Beck, get him out of here.”

Tony didn’t sound disgusted. It was just an order, he was just a commander telling his soldier to do something. So Peter took Beck’s arms when he came forward and Tony hurried away from them, anxiously rubbing his hands together and not looking at Peter. He pointedly kept his gaze off of them until they’d left the office and the door was shut.

Beck took Peter down a flight of steps and to a small garden courtyard. There, Peter sank onto a short stone bench and buried his face in his hands, gasping for breath. He felt empty and wrung out; it felt like the only thing that still belonged to him was the space inside his lungs. He was in too much pain, between Bradley and Tony, to think about much else but the heat and ache in his body. He didn’t know what hurt worse, the men’s fists or their words.

After a while Beck said, “it would be easier for you if you … if you didn’t provoke him like that,”

Peter wiped his nose and choked out, “he’s ruining my _life_!”

A beat.

Then: “maybe. But at least he isn’t ending it.”

Peter didn’t answer for a very long time. The next time he looked up, Beck was gone. Swollen with heat from the sun and the beatings, Peter pulled the cardigan off and turned it over in his hands. There was a rip on the left sleeve and on the back of the collar. But what did that matter?

Left in only a white shirt, Peter found himself praying for rain. The shirt could use some colour, his battered body could use the cool relief. But there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Even Arachne itself wouldn’t answer to him, was disgusted with him probably. Like everyone else.

Peter’s fingers crawled through his hair, mind whirling through the day. Maybe Bradley was right. He hadn’t fought and nearly died in battle for Peter to just roll over and submit. Ned died; Bennett lost half his leg; Bradley was wounded - and now Peter wanted those same people to bend their knee to the man responsible?

It was wrong. It was a terrible expectation. He had done something horrible in agreeing to this marriage. He recalled now his anger-addled plan to kill Tony. He would have to wait. He needed a poison that could feign natural symptoms, and he needed Tony and the other people from Ferrum to trust him. It wouldn’t do for Tony to die only for that stupid contract to see Arachne razed anyway.

No, Peter could prove himself to Arachne again. He could work this from the inside out. He just needed to grit his teeth and get through the wedding. A few weeks after that, once he’d had time to surreptitiously gather the right ingredients, once Tony was tired enough to lie down in bed without watching his back. Then it would be easy. Peter would be able to kill him, fake his own shock the next morning, and prove that he was not weak. That he was not a coward. That he was a leader they could look up to. He was like his uncle and like Ned and like so many others - willing to put his life on the line for his nation.

Peter didn’t go to dinner or to the library. He went back to his room. He folded the cardigan and tucked it away in the back of the closet. No more looking back. No more painful memories or flushed tears. Peter had to shoulder the sacrifices of his friends and his family. He had to prove whose side he was on - and prove what he was willing to do for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay everyone, there's so much in this chapter I want to talk about! But I don't want to chatter needlessly so like, just drop a comment if you want to unpack any of these scenes and I'll be happy to chat about it!  
> Generally though, things are going to get better starting first scene in the very next chapter - I promise! Whump Peter is fun but we can all agree he and Tony need to have a conversation that doesn't end in hitting and crying.  
> Also, don't read too much into Beck and Peter getting along. Beck did abandon him sobbing on a bench after all :)  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	6. Lemon Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has an unexpected dinner guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 Warnings: Mention of physical abuse, description of wounds, physical and mental symptoms of stress/anxiety

_Peter,_

_I am not writing this to make you worry. I will be home within a week and I will tell you all the details then. I hope our departure doesn’t wake you, I hope you and May are able to occupy yourselves while I’m away._

_I am going to meet with Anthony Stark. I will make an offer that he keep the territory he has already won, I suspect he will want to pause his campaign to consolidate his new lands anyway. I know it’s all moving fast, I just brought you home from the field and now I’m leaving to go back out. But this is our job, Peter. You may be the king of Arachne one day and I want you to always remember: with great power comes great responsibility._

_All leaders should know this. I fear it is something Anthony Stark has lost sight of. I am hopeful I will be able to remind him of that crucial lesson this week._

_Take care of everyone while I am away, Peter. I know Edward’s passing still hurts; this war will leave us scarred for a very long time. Turn your pain into peace, patience, and goodness. I am_ _immensely_ _proud of you._

_I will see you soon,_

_Uncle Ben_

In the month after Uncle Benjamin’s death, Peter kept thinking his uncle hadn’t expected to come back - not really. Sure, the letter said _don’t want you to worry, I’ll be back soon_ , but it also had more detail than a merely informative letter should have had. If Uncle Benjamin thought he was coming home soon, he wouldn’t have discussed Stark at length, wouldn’t have left those little lines of wisdom, wouldn’t have ended on _I am immensely proud of you_ with that sharp underline on the bottom of the page.

Uncle Benjamin wasn’t _naive_ enough to think he would be perfectly safe.

But his heart was big enough to try and calm his nephew, reeling from grief, through his parting words.

Peter kept the letter hidden in the back of his desk drawer. He read it a couple of times the evening after he went to town with Beck - after one of Arachne’s citizens beat him and Tony struck him.

_I fear it is something Anthony Stark has lost sight of. I am hopeful I will be able to remind him of that crucial lesson this week._

Uncle Benjamin had failed at this, of course. He hadn’t come back from that expedition; he had died pursuing peace. He had died exhibiting the benevolence of a loving ruler. Died for what he believed in.

Peter wondered if even a small part of his uncle had felt selfish in his last moments. If he had thought of May for even a second, or wanted to beg for his life. But that didn’t add up. Uncle Benjamin was too good, was confident in his own leadership, was more than willing to die for the right thing.

When Peter’s door swung open, he jumped. He banged his knee under the desk and rushed to put the letter away. As he turned toward the door it swung shut again with a _bang_. No one had entered.

Peter hesitated, gently closing the desk drawer, waiting. Maybe a servant had found the wrong room, or they hadn’t expected Peter to be in here, or -

_Knock, knock, knock_

Peter’s brow wrinkled.

He hesitated a moment and then -

_KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK_

Louder this time, angrier, more space between each hit.

He lifted his voice nervously: “come in?”

And the door opened again. Peter lurched to his feet when Tony strode in and kicked the door shut with his heel. He was alone and holding a bright silver tray. Peter felt his nerves coil and his palms itched to curl into fists. But he forced himself to hold his ground and stare at the king, suddenly his throat tasted like sandpaper.

Peter hadn’t been alone with Tony since the day they met. Now he felt a hot flush warming his neck and chest as the bed seemed to grow in his peripheral vision, dark and looming.

Tony cast his eyes around Peter’s suite. He jerked his chin in the direction of a spare chair propped against the dresser:

“Bring that to your desk”

Peter didn’t move for a moment until Tony walked toward him and then he hurried to get out of his way.

Peter picked up the chair and hauled it back. Tony had set the tray down on the desk and had his eyes fixed out the window; it was too dark outside to see much except for the jutting shapes of the castle walls and turrets. Peter stopped a few feet away, clutching the chair in front of his body like it could create a barrier between them.

Tony ordered without looking at him:

“Sit.”

Peter swallowed and obeyed. He wondered if Tony could hear his thudding heartbeat, Peter struggled to keep control of his breathing. He shifted in his seat, his lower back itching and the backs of his ears prickling painfully. Why was Tony even here? What was he doing? What could he -

Peter let his gaze fall to the tray, but didn’t know what to make of the contents. There was one plate of food: a fillet of fish tossed with lemon and herbs, vegetables roasted until they were crisp, and a glass of water.

Next to the plate was a set of utensils. And then a huge slice of carmine-coloured cake. And then a hand mirror, two cloths, and two bowls, one filled with water and the other with a pasty white balm.

Tony walked around the back of the chair to sit at the desk. They were close enough that their knees could have touched if they wanted. But Tony just sat back and crossed his legs and stared at Peter.

After a moment, the king gestured toward the tray and said:

“You didn’t come to dinner.”

Peter swallowed and nodded, drumming his fingers on the surface of the desk. Why were his ears ringing so loud?

“I’m not very hungry tonight,” Peter’s voice sounded ragged once he finally choked the words out.

Tony folded his hands in his lap and said: “you haven’t been hungry for eight days.”

Peter’s expression crumpled in confusion. _Eight days_? What did eight days have to do with anything? What had happened eight days ago?

And then it dawned on him; eight days ago, Tony had marched into the castle. Eight days ago, Michelle had died. Eight days ago, Peter had agreed to all of this.

Only eight days?

Only eight _days_?

Peter blew out his exhale slowly and started to lean over, a terrible dizziness starting in his forehead. He felt like he was going to -

“Please don’t throw up on the floor in front of me.”

Peter swallowed and nodded, one hand clenching the edge of the desk to hold himself half-upright.

“I mean, you can throw up.” Tony added, “but do it, like,” he sniffed, “out the window.”

Peter shook his head and eased himself back to a sitting position, “I’m okay.” He promised, “I’m sorry I just hadn’t -” he was completely flushed with heat now, shirt slicked against his back, “hadn’t really thought about …” he trailed off. Tony didn’t finish for him, didn’t indicate whether he understood or not. Peter supposed it didn’t matter.

Tony leaned forward and nudged the plate toward the edge of the desk, in Peter’s direction.

“You need to eat, Prince Peter.”

Feeling cowed, Peter picked up the plate and the fork and ate a bite of the fish. It probably tasted good but just stuck in his dry throat and he had to swallow several times. Tony watched him choke, guzzle half the glass of water, then stuff two more bites of food into his mouth and force them down.

Once he swallowed his third bite, Peter hesitated, eyes flicking back up to Tony. Was he going to just sit there and watch him eat this whole meal? Peter hadn’t eaten this much in weeks and he really wasn’t hungry to begin with. He was just going to make himself sick. Peter flushed at the amount of food still on his plate and formulated half a protest in his head. He was working on getting the words out, on begging Tony to just leave him alone, when the king moved.

Tony picked up the knife on the tray, leaned forward, and cut off a bite of fish. He speared it and ate the piece himself, everything done with precision and finesse despite how the plate shook in Peter’s hand.

Once he swallowed, Tony said: “tell me about what happened today. When you were in town.”

“I t - told you,” Peter said, cursing his own voice for shaking so much.

Tony nodded and dabbed at his chin with a napkin.

“Okay. You’re in this bakery. And what - someone just walked up and hit you?”

“Well, no.” Peter shook his head, “Beck went to help Mrs. Brant in the back. Then three - well, then the man who attacked me came in.”

“Three men came in?”

Peter hesitated long enough that it answered Tony’s question. The king took another bite off of his plate. Peter wondered if he could get word to Bradley that he and his friends might be in danger. Maybe Betty could tell them, but how would Peter get in touch with her?

“Only - Only Bradley hit me,” Peter said softly, mind whirling to try and deter any sort of retribution from Tony.

The king didn’t react to this, he just prompted: “They enter the bakery. Then what?”

“Bradley, umm, called me a whore. He said I’d sold out my country. Said I - was just trying to save my own life.”

Tony cut off another piece of fish for himself. _God_ , Peter realised with a sick lurch in his stomach, _he’s_ conditioning _me._ Tony knew he didn’t want to eat, so for every question Peter answered he helped the boy get through the meal.

“And _then_ he hit you?”

“Yes.”

“He punched you?”

“Well - and he - he kicked me once, in the stomach.” _And then you punched me and cracked my head against the wall._

“And then Beck killed this - Bradley. And the other two are alive and well.” Peter couldn’t decide if Tony said this as a question or a statement. There was a tickle in the back of his throat, sort of like he needed to sneeze. Afraid to answer verbally, Peter acquiesced a rigid nod.

Peter yelped when his chin was jerked around and his head yanked up. He had to stare into Tony’s eyes now, the king’s grip bruising on his jaw.

“Peter,” Tony was very close to him, eyes like dark pools as they searched his face, like maybe they could figure out the truth without Peter actually saying anything. “ _Is_ Bradley dead?”

Even seated, Peter’s knees shook so badly that the fork and plate rattled against one another. If not for the sense of danger, the sound would have annoyed him.

And then Peter whispered:

“Yes.”

He was sure Tony saw through the lie. Sure he had just resigned himself to some grizzly or graphic fate for daring to lie to the king. But Tony just let go of him and sat back, his expression stern.

“Do you know what happens to people who lie to me, Peter?”

Peter breathed out: “Nothing good.”

This made Tony smirk, which Peter found infuriating. It was a smile that bore power and boasted of savagery. It was like Tony enjoyed Peter being anxious, enjoyed holding lives in his hand and knocking them clattering to the ground like pawns on a chess board.

But to Peter’s relief, Tony just leaned forward to eat a generous bite of vegetables. This left one piece of fish on the plate, which Peter polished off easily. He put the plate back on the tray, squirming at the thought of continuing this horrible interrogation through such a huge slice of cake.

But Tony didn’t mention the cake and instead reached toward Peter. He grabbed either side of the chair and yanked it closer. Peter yelped and his elbows and knees bent up, as if charged to roll away or maybe defend himself.

But then Tony was dipping a washcloth into the bowl of water. He propped up the mirror against the bowl and tilted it so Peter could see his own face.

Peter blinked at himself.

He had a mirror in the washroom, so he saw his reflection every day. But now Peter thought maybe he hadn’t really paid attention to himself in weeks.

Had he always looked this … empty? His cheeks looked almost hollow, his eyes seemed to weigh down his whole head.And, of course, _today_ there was dried blood smeared across the left side of his face, three jagged cuts were drawn across his eyebrow and blood was matted where his hair had been torn from his scalp. One of the cuts was back against his temple and there was already a swollen black bruise on his cheek, making his whole face puffy and …

He looked ugly and mean, small. Not a prince. Not a courageous man making shrewd decisions for his country.

Just a cheap, beaten whore.

Peter tore his gaze away in horror when he felt something damp touch his face. His shoulders curved up to his neck when he registered what was happening. Tony was holding the cloth out, dipping his free hand into the medicine.

Tony hesitated with his right hand still hovering anxiously next to Peter’s skin. Then he asked: “May I?” and his voice was cool and calm, as if this was something he did frequently. As if Anthony the Conqueror was infamous not for fire and ruin, but for a gentle touch. Tony’s voice was almost the slightest bit bored, and Peter thought maybe that was for him. To indicate that if Peter said no, if he insisted on treating the wounds himself, then it wouldn’t matter.

Peter _should_ say no. He should take the cloth from Tony, should curl his lip and spit that he can do it himself. He shouldn’t want someone to touch him, much less for that person to be the man who had ruined everything.

But something inside Peter, something more primal, just wanted tenderness. Just wanted to not flinch away. Wanted something like Betty’s arms around his neck, like Beck’s hands cupping his face, wanted to indulge in something wrong.

Peter closed his eyes and nodded very slightly.

And he _knew_ it wasn’t Aunt May who wiped his face clean. Knew it wasn’t Uncle Benjamin who cooled his swollen bruises. Knew it wasn’t Michelle or Ned who dabbed the medicine on his forehead and brushed his hair with their fingers.

But sitting there with his eyes closed, Peter could pretend.

He could pretend that Tony’s touch was borne from kindness.

He could pretend that there was still someone out there who loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!!  
> I'm really anxious about this chapter because I feel like it worked a lot better in my head than how it came out on paper (on screen?) But, I hope you all enjoy it! As always, I welcome feedback/criticism/etc.  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	7. Puncture Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finds out Ferrum and Arachne have more differences that he expected, spanning wedding traditions to medical practices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 warnings: Descriptions of battle, wounds, and (non-explicit) surgery. An itty-bitty part that sort of suggests feminisation if you squint (socio-culturally accepted in this world.) As ever, Peter experiences some anxiety/post-trauma symptoms, etc.

For a few days, Peter spent his time between the library or his own rooms. He read books and made notes, sometimes he sat in the gardens to sample petals and leaves. He had a vague idea of the type of poison he wanted to make, thought he could find most ingredients easily, but he still needed to be careful. He needed to distill some items, made guesswork on the amounts required, wondered how easily he could filch things from the kitchens. It was going to be a long process but it helped to have something to focus on. Hours flew by, but he still felt somewhat sick each day. It got worse if he focused too hard on what he was doing, on the reality of poison, the knowledge that _his_ hand and _his_ mind would be used to hurt someone.

That it was Tony, someone who deserved it, gave Peter’s twisted insides little consolation.

He took lunch by himself or skipped it all together, but he made sure to eat breakfast and dinner every day in the dining room with Tony. They didn’t talk to each other, except a comment one evening that Peter’s bruises looked better. Tony didn’t come back to Peter’s rooms again and Peter made sure to eat everything on his plate.

And then one morning:

“I need to work out details for the wedding today, would you join me?”

Peter was staring into a glass of apple juice and wondering about the reaction between the sugar in apples and nectar in ngissian flowers.

He slowly lifted his eyes to look at Tony, eyelashes fluttering a bit in confusion. The king’s gaze was, as ever, measured and calm, lips turned just a little bit down.

“You want me to help plan the wedding?”

“Well, it is _our_ wedding.” Tony smirked, “And I assume you’re bored stiff, what else do you have to do?”

_Plan your murder._

“Right, I - I’d be happy to.” Peter nodded so he gulped down the rest of his juice and followed Tony to his office.

There, Tony sat behind Uncle Benjamin’s desk and Peter took a seat on the side. He ignored the light throb in the side of his head, remembering the last time they’d been here. There was no one else in the office today, at least not yet. Tony shuffled a couple stacks of papers and then dipped a quill in ink.

Peter asked: “what are weddings like in Ferrum?”

For just a moment, Tony went completely still. Something cautious and ancient flickered in his eyes, then he waved his hand and said, “they’re just weddings.”

Tony tugged on the collar of his jacket and went on, “now we don’t need anything grand, but the joining of two royal houses does call for some …”

_The destruction of one royal house while another steals its assets._

“... Prince Peter?”

Peter had his chin in one hand and was leaning on the desk, faking so much interest it must have looked silly.

“Sorry,” Peter cleared his throat and sat back, wondering if there was anything that he actually _cared about_ regarding this wedding. He would have cared more under different circumstances, if this marriage was to a different person. He wondered over which cards to play and how to play them. Even a conversation like this, which was downright inane, made him nervous.

Then Peter asked: “could it be outside?”

Tony’s brow furrowed, “what if it rains?”

“It’s … that’s good luck, here.”

That made Tony scoff.

“ _Good luck_? Not only is the rain in this country a nuisance, it _stains_. It would ruin everything.”

Peter shrugged, willing himself not to be hurt by such harsh words. “That’s not how people in Arachne see it,” he answered, “rain is celebrated. It’s seen as beautiful. All the flowers at weddings are white and then if it rains people compete to assemble the most beautiful bouquet. They give it to someone they love.”

“It would spoil the food!”

Peter cocked his head to the side, “You eat at weddings?”

“You _don’t_ eat at weddings?”

Peter swallowed the grin forming on his face. Despite himself, despite how horrible the man sitting next to him was, this was …

It wasn’t quite fun. But it was somewhat interesting, to talk about these differences. Eating at weddings, that sounded nice.

“We could have food at our wedding,” Peter said, “we’d just need to cover it. If … if we do have it outside that is, it’s not that important.”

He was getting carried away now, thinking about this. Peter felt a blush creeping up alongside the smile and he squashed them both into the pit of his stomach.

 _You’re marrying your uncle’s killer_.

Tony turned away a bit too much, shielding his face from Peter more than was needed in order to write. His quill moved quickly, his handwriting an urgent scrawl on the paper.

“We can have the ceremony outside.” Tony said at length, swallowing several times and scratching at his jaw with one hand, “then we’ll go inside to eat.”

Peter nodded. He wondered what food was served at weddings in Ferrum, if it was different than what they ate every day.

“I didn’t know I’d have to spell some of these things out,” Tony set the quill down, “but at the altar, in Ferrum, the people getting married each walk in from opposite sides to meet in the middle.” He mimed the actions, the altar the desk right in front of him.

Peter shook his head, “it’s different here. Parents stand at the altar and their children walk hand-in-hand from the middle to meet them. Then the parents give - well - we say _give_. They _give_ their children to one another.”

They were both silent a moment. Neither of them needed to think long to conclude, “we should follow Ferrum’s tradition.”

A bastard who had dethroned his father; an orphan whose family fell to the bastard in question. It wasn’t even worth entertaining the thought of parents giving their children away at the wedding.

They went on like that: Arachne distinguished between engagement rings and wedding rings; Ferrum had only one ring received at the ceremony. Arachnean vows were always the same and recited; in Ferrum they were written by the people getting married. Arachnean weddings were at dawn facing the sunrise; Ferrumean weddings could be held at any time but usually occurred in the afternoon or evening. In Arachne, people mingled and talked after the ceremony but in Ferrum they danced for hours and in sequences with specific partners.

Peter hummed when they got to the question of what to wear. Tony said that in Ferrum anyone who served in the army wore a decorated military uniform. Peter thought about the patterned robes and pastel makeup at Arachnean weddings. He doubted that would sound appealing to Tony and wondered about navigating them to a middle ground.

Peter didn’t get to say anything, though. There was an urgent knock on the office door and before Tony could speak, Beck’s head poked in.

“Milord, General Rhodes has asked for you.”

Tony’s chair screeched backward and the king jumped to his feet. Peter shied away, having only seen so much energy from the man in fits of anger and violence.

“Right now?” Tony breathed, hands fluttering nervously on the desk but not grabbing anything.

Beck’s lips twisted into a grimace, something between sadness and pity. “Bruce thinks he still has time but he asked -”

“Of course,” and Tony went around the desk and marched straight out the door. Beck hurried to get out of his way and when Tony was gone he peeked back in at Peter.

“Prince Peter.”

“What’s going on?” Peter stood up slowly and took a few cautious steps forward.

Beck jerked his head back into the hallway where Tony had disappeared. “James Rhodes is one of Ferrum’s generals. One of the king's best men and closest friends. He was injured near the end of the fighting and … they don’t think he’ll make it.”

“Oh,” and even though Peter ought to hate Tony and this Rhodes and every single person from Ferrum, ought to be proud of his own army for even making a dent in Ferrum’s strength, he felt a sadness settle on his shoulders. For just a moment there, Peter had been … not _happy_. But he’d been _okay_. He had been sort of interested in talking to Tony. The king had been understanding and amicable. The loss of his best friend would tear him apart.

Peter knew that all too well.

“What happened to him?” Peter asked.

Beck closed the door behind him and shrugged, “a spear went through his leg and he fell off his horse, got dragged before he cut himself loose. The wound took on a nasty infection.” Peter nodded and looked down, thinking of the ill green colours which had been distorted on Bennett’s leg.

Then Beck said, “it’s weird to look at now, the flesh all grey and dead like that.”

Peter lifted his head, “the flesh … on his leg?”

Beck nodded.

“They didn’t amputate it?”

“Amputate … you can’t cut off someone’s limb! They’ll die!”

_They’ll die? Is that what Ferrum thinks?_

“No they won’t,” Peter shook his head and stepped towards Beck, “I mean - we don’t _know_ they’ll die. When you met Betty and Eleonore in the city, they told you I saved Bennett’s life. That was his leg, we had to cut it off at the knee.”

Beck’s nose wrinkled at the thought, but Peter’s mind was already at the door and racing. “Beck, how long ago was he injured? Where did the spear go through? Where is he now?”

“Same medical wing Arachne used, in the western -” Peter stepped around Beck and bolted for the door but was yanked back by his wrist, “Peter, wait!”

Peter stopped and looked back at the soldier, heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t lose time right now, “I might be able to save him, Beck!”

Beck’s eyes searched his face and Peter thought they might actually be watering a little. “Peter, what if you can’t? If you give the king hope but then can’t deliver I’m just worried -”

“That’s a risk I’ll take. I think I can help!” Peter tugged gently on his arm but Beck didn’t give up, if anything he planted his feet more firmly. Peter swallowed, “If I don’t help, and something bad happens? That’s my fault.”

That made Beck let go of him. “I know, kid. I just don’t want him to hurt you again.”

“I’m not the one that matters right now,” Peter answered and left the office. He half ran through the halls and skipped steps as he hurried to the infirmary.

Just inside, his nose twitched with the scent of herbs and he swallowed a cough. He turned frantic eyes to a Ferrumean doctor who was straightening up.

“I’m looking for General Rhodes,”

The doctor’s eyebrows knit together so closely they seemed to join. He cleared his throat and straightened his back so he was looking down at Peter from his nose.

“The general is with the king. I don’t think you’re permitted to be here, Prince Peter.”

“Please, I think I can save the general’s life!”

The doctor laughed and shook his head, “I doubt you alone can stand up to Ferrum’s best medical staff.”

“No listen, it’s not about skill. I just know a different technique. It was experimental in Arachne but successful and we -” Peter stopped breathlessly, he might not have time to explain all of this. If the general was wounded over a week ago then each minute that passed mattered.

“Peter, you can come in.”

Peter spun toward one of the attached suites and felt the tension slip from his limbs at the sight of Bruce. He bypassed the snivelling, frowning doctor and went straight toward the man.

Bruce put his hand out just as Peter reached the doorway, “do you really think you can help?”

“I don’t know.” Peter shook his head, “but, I … _maybe_.”

Bruce nodded and stepped back to let Peter inside. It was dark in the room, lit only by a couple sallow yellow lanterns. Immediately the stench of disease crawled into Peter’s lungs and he got nervous - maybe it was too late, maybe he couldn’t do anything.

Tony was standing at the bedside of a very thin man with dark skin. General Rhodes looked only half-there, his eyes slipping closed and his breath shallow. He was covered with a blanket and Peter itched to pull it off of him, to shine light on the wound, to put his mind to work not in service of underhanded poisons but to save a life.

Tony saw him and hissed, lip curling with distaste, “ _what_ are you doing here?”

Peter held both hands up to appease the king, stepping forward slowly. “I _might_ be able to help your friend,” Peter said, “I don’t know if the infection is in his blood but if we amputate we might be able to -”

“You can’t amputa- ”

“Yes, you _can_!” Peter gasped desperately, conscious that he should _never_ interrupt Tony like he just did. “It’s dangerous and it might not work but it’s safer to amputate than to leave it, I swear! There are people in my city!” Peter pointed vaguely outside of the room, “Arachne has practiced this for several years, I did it myself in field hospitals during the war. _Please,_ it could mean his life!”

Tony stared at him, then looked cautiously back at the face of his dying friend.

He lifted his eyes back to Peter, who wondered if anyone else had ever seen Anthony the Conqueror with fear in his eyes. Under different circumstances, Peter might have relished it.

Tony asked, “You think it will work?”

Peter thought about his two sleepless months stitching organs back into place and sawing through bone. The last operation he had performed had been Ned. Ned who hadn’t made it, who had been in too much pain, whose body had been ready to move on.

Peter’s voice broke, “all I can do is try.”

The dying man between them gasped and Tony leaned close to his friend to say something.

Then the king looked back up at Peter. He stepped away from the bed and waved his hand out in a grandiose gesture toward General Rhodes.

“Go on then, Prince Peter.” His voice was cold and he swept out of the room. When he passed he growled, “I’ll be waiting outside,” and Peter got the sense it was a threat.

Beck’s warnings flashed through Peter’s mind and down to his bones:

_If you give the king hope but then can’t deliver -_

_I just don’t want him to hurt you again._

But Peter shook his head and stepped forward. This wasn’t about him. He quickly rolled up both sleeves and threw the blanket off the general’s legs, folding it across his torso.

He started to turn around, “Bruce -”

“I’m with you, Peter. Whatever you need.” Bruce nodded from over his shoulder and Peter let out a deep breath.

* * *

Four hours later, Peter emerged to the lobby of the infirmary. Tony was sitting in a chair which had clearly been procured specifically for him to use. He wasn’t doing anything; he wasn’t reading or writing or speaking with an attendant. He was just sitting, leaning on his elbow, thumb and forefinger on his jaw, eyes fixated on thoughts or memories not in the room.

Peter had blood smeared on both hands and up to his right elbow. His clothes were slicked tight against his body from sweat and clumps of hair were sticking up and out, his eyes were flushed and his brow kept twitching like it didn’t feel comfortable not furrowed in concentration. It felt strange to see afternoon sunlight out the window; it made sense, he had begun operating in the morning so the sun should not have set but still, the middle of the day felt wrong. And it was eerily quiet out here. Rhodes hadn’t screamed or cried, but his whole body clenched through the process while he let out grunts and hisses of pain.

Tony crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He cleared his throat before asking, “is my friend going to live, Prince Peter?”

 _Is my friend going to live_?

For a moment Peter was at Ned’s bedside instead, on his knees begging him to hold on longer, to keep breathing, squeezing his arm and weeping and clinging to a pulse which was fading too fast.

His knees started to buckle so Peter shifted both feet, forced his mind back to the present, and swallowed.

“I can’t say for sure, it depends on the next couple of days. But I think General Rhodes will live.”

Tony stood up and nodded tersely, “good, you will continue to keep an eye on him.” He said it like an order, but Peter had been planning on that anyway. “For now, you can go clean up.” The king started to walk toward Peter, toward the general’s room, and Peter nearly tripped to get out of his way.

Just next to one another, Tony paused. Peter braced himself for another veiled threat.

“You never told me you worked in field hospitals.” Tony said, he didn’t turn his head to look at Peter. “I’ve called you a coward prince, insulted your honour for not helping your nation. Why haven’t you corrected me?”

Peter also did not look at Tony, felt his heart thump a little faster. He didn’t know how honest he should be, but he thought that with General Rhodes alive he had earned at least one retort.

So Peter said, “I don’t need to prove myself to you.”

He didn’t stay to see Tony’s reaction, to see if he grimaced or snapped. Didn’t stay to give the king a chance to hit or shove him. He had been given permission to leave, so he did.

If he had stayed, he would have seen Tony grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!  
> I lied to a couple commenters, I didn't end up writing this from Tony's perspective. But that's okay, I like writing from Peter's perspective and I promise we'll still get to the bottom of Tony's character (in fact, a lot of that Tony Explanation happens in Chapter 8!)  
> As always, let me know if you have any feedback. If you're not about comments, you can find me under the same username on Tumblr and DM me there / ask anonymously if you prefer!  
> Have a good one, you're all beautiful and exceptional and lovely!  
> Grace


	8. Sore Throats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more to Peter's fiancé than meets the eye, more than he wants to know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: (Past) major character death, war, anxiety, crying

General Rhodes had a difficult recovery. Bruce and Peter rotated at his bedside, changing bandages, slathering medicine on the wound, and spoon-feeding him light meals. He didn’t talk much to Peter, except to thank him the first time he was lucid.

The first three days were the hardest, the most uncertain. Peter spent nearly thirty hours by the general’s side, curled in a chair in case the man woke or his condition got worse or he needed anything. The long hours made Bruce flutter anxiously around the infirmary.

“I can talk to Tony, Peter. He can’t make you stay here for days on end just to keep an eye on —”

“He didn’t tell me to do this, Bruce. I’m here for my patient.”

But then it became clear that the general’s surgery had been a success. He woke up for longer periods of time and could have conversations with Bruce and Tony and other visitors from Ferrum. Peter left when this was the case. He went to the library and continued the construction of his poison. He had plenty of time, killing Tony before or right after the wedding would be painfully obvious, so Peter started to amass his books and papers and ingredients in a small box which he kept under the bench in the library.

Bruce sometimes came to sit with him, but never stuck his nose into Peter’s things or asked what he was working on. As ever, he was focused on Arachne’s weather patterns.

“Does it ever rain in two colours?” Bruce asked one evening. It had been ten days since they’d amputated the general’s leg. There were still ten days before the wedding, the castle was humming with motion and activity for the festivities. Bruce stared outside at splotchy red raindrops. They streaked across the windowpane and looked to Peter like tufts of crimson wildflowers on the plains.

Peter turned his paper over to the blank back side, ever conscious of Bruce’s eyes accidentally straying to his work.

“Not often,” he answered at length, “and if it does, it’s hard to tell because the colour just looks different. Blue and yellow makes green; or we just think it’s a weird muddy brown.”

“The red kind of looks like blood,” Bruce commented. Peter felt that this red was far too bright to be compared to blood, but didn’t say so.

“We had a transparent rain, once. When I was young,” he offered.

“What do you mean?” Bruce looked at him with his eyes always slightly wide, like a fascinated or bewildered child.

Peter cleared his throat, “Like, if you had a glass of water, at dinner? Or took water from a stream. It was like that.”

Bruce laughed, “Peter, that’s just regular old rain. That’s what rain is like everywhere but here.”

It was strange to think that something so rare and so fascinating to Peter was mundane to the rest of the world. Peter liked Bruce, liked his company. He hoped he would stick around after Tony died, he was easy to talk to; he always called Peter by name; he did not sneer or snort or treat him with contempt.

“How does the rain work with bodies of water? When it falls in lakes or rivers?”

“It’s like a dye, it dissipates.” Peter answered, “sometimes it discolours the water but that goes away with time. It’s always drinkable.” Bruce put his finger against the glass and dragged it gently down to imitate a drop of rain. He looked like he was remembering something.

“In Ferrum, most people had to use buckets to collect rainwater. They used it for everything — mostly drinking but also bathing, cleaning. There were very few bodies of water not dried up, no well system. And it didn’t rain often.” Peter nodded mutely to this story; Arachne had always had good weather and prosperous soil, but he knew that other countries still struggled. He knew his country was very fortunate.

“Peter,” He twisted his gaze from the window to look at Bruce, raising his eyebrows expectantly, “is there a reason you don’t call him anything?”

Peter’s tongue suddenly felt heavy in his mouth. He swallowed and lowered his eyes, drawing a small spiral in the corner of the paper.

Bruce sighed, “I know Tony can be… erratic. But really, he wants what’s best for —”

“He wants what’s best for himself!” Peter cut in, “ _maybe_ that extends to his friends from time to time but ultimately he is self-absorbed and self-interested. I don’t call him anything because he doesn’t _deserve_ to be called ‘milord’ or ‘your highness,’ he struck me when I called him ‘Anthony’ and expects me to call him ‘Tony’ like we’re… like we’re friends?” Every muscle in Peter’s body began to wind up and tighten. “The man’s a killer and a snake, ambition has made him mad. I will not deign to treat an animal like a human by giving him a name!”

His voice caught in his throat and choked off at the very end of his speech. He was a little bit nervous about retribution, but mostly just angry at the audacity of the man in the castle. The man who had bullied Peter into consenting to marriage, who had invaded their country unprovoked and killed his family.

Bruce whistled softly and fixed his gaze out the window again. Peter fiercely blinked back the tears which had gathered in his eyes.

“Peter, Tony’s done some bad things but I think you —”

“He murdered his own father!” Peter snapped, “stormed his castle and left him to be torn apart by his own countrymen! And for what? Just because he coveted the throne!”

“Peter, that’s not the whole story.” Bruce cut in, his voice annoyingly patient. “I’m not making excuses! You’re right, he’s done bad things and he… hell, he continues to do bad things. But Tony has his reasons, he —”

“What, Ferrum had drought problems and he thought he could provide better?” Peter’s voice was a drawl, sarcastic and disinterested, “that doesn’t excuse his —”

“Peter.” Bruce stopped and waited, for all the world like an exasperated parent who wanted their child’s tantrum to subside. Peter fumed andglowered at Bruce. He made a flippant _go on_ gesture with his hand and rolled his eyes.

Bruce’s lips pursed before he spoke, “Before Tony was king, Ferrum was… it was falling apart. Not only were there water and food shortages but there was this terrible class system in place. Tony was born a bastard; people kind of _knew_ who King Howard’s kids were but his mom died pretty early on. He grew up an apprentice smith, but apprenticeships were different from other countries and different from how they are now. Apprentices were indentured to mentors, they could be beaten or imprisoned. They could lose their job on a whim, they could be denied wages. It was more like slavery.”

 _More like slavery_. Peter’s brow furrowed at the thought of Anthony Stark bending to anyone. Someone raised with nothing would have every reason to want the world, to be completely blinded by their ambition.

Bruce rubbed his palms together nervously. Peter wondered now if he was meant to be hearing this story, if this was some kind of secret. “Aside from a little allowance from his father every couple months, Tony had nothing. Barely had his own name. And the coin that did come in? It put him way ahead of his peers, it meant he had his freedom by the time he was twenty. He was able to open his own smithy, owned a little house. He was his own man, that’s when we met.” Bruce paused just a moment and a smile touched his lips but not his eyes, “I worked for Howard, but Tony and I got along really well, he’s… sharp, he’s wicked smart. He was always drawing different military contraptions or infrastructure changes, said he could change Ferrum entirely. Said he could make it somewhere people _wanted_ to live. Somewhere where people more than just survived.” Bruce shook his head fondly now, “you should’ve seen these ideas, Peter. I know it’s crazy but I think you would’ve liked them. I mean… I think the Tony I knew then… you two would have gotten along.”

That comment made Peter groan, “please don’t say that,” because the thought made him feel ill.

Bruce waved his hand in apology, “Right, sorry. Anyway, he had these plans. He was going to do it slowly. He was going to start on his own street and then his own district in the city. He was going to make allies and gain trust and ease his way up. But Ferrum was a hard place to live, people didn’t want help they wanted drinks and sex and sleep. Comforts that are easy, instant gratification. Tony stayed away from a lot of it. He had his home, his shop. Hell, the man got married and had a daughter… They named her Morgan. Her mom died just after giving birth. Morgan was _everything_ to Tony. She was brilliant, funny, it’s crazy but when she smiled… the whole world, and this was a place without much light to begin with, lit up around her. She would have been enough for him. She —”

“I don’t want to hear this,” Peter interrupted, his heart twisting with the suspicion of how this story would end. But he didn’t protest when Bruce kept going. If Tony had to live through it, then the least Peter could do was listen.

“Living in Ferrum was… hard. Hard for everyone but especially children. The water was bad, the food was rotten. The worst part was this dust in the air from the mines, Morgan couldn’t breathe. A cough started when she was four and she… it made her whole body shake, she was too tired to play, her throat was too sore to eat. And it got so much worse at night when she lied down. Tony would stay up with her…”

Bruce’s eyes flickered with grief and his voice rasped when he continued, “The man was all skin and bones; he wasn’t sleeping, every scrap of food or drop of clean water he found went to her. He spent every coin he had, sold everything he owned and then spent all of that too. We put all of _my_ savings into it. I thought he couldn’t get any more desperate and _then_ Tony went to King Howard. He begged for the king’s help, offered his service, his life. Howard turned him away, called him weak. Said Tony deserved his lot… Morgan was gone in six months.”

Peter had to swallow a few times to overcome the lump in his throat, horrified at the story of a child dying and a king callously unwilling to help.

“When Morgan died, something in Tony just snapped. Everything had been taken from him since the moment he was born, and then even everything he had earned was snatched away too. Who else to blame but the king in his castle, overseeing all that pain and not doing anything about it? What else to do but take for himself until he was too powerful for someone to take from him again?”

Peter digested the end of this story quietly.

He couldn’t wipe Tony’s face from his mind. Tony in love? Tony heartbroken? Tony playing with a child? None of those images made any sense, he couldn’t piece them together with the man he knew.

He couldn’t connect the story with the outcome, either.

“So… what?” Peter sniffed, voice thick and trembling and tears stinging his eyes, “his family died so that gives him the right to deprive everyone else of theirs?”

Bruce sighed, “No, Peter. I told you from the start, I’m not trying to excuse him. I’m just —”

“But is that how he excuses _himself_?” Peter whirled off the bench and slammed his materials down with so much force that Bruce jumped.

“Peter —”

“I’m serious!” Peter threw his arm out in the direction of the castle, “ _Eleven_ countries have fallen to him, Bruce! Do you know how many people have died to the swords of Ferrum’s army? To say nothing of the consequences of refugees and slaves and — and then he comes _here_ and makes me marry him like it’s some great mercy to my people! You know what he told me when we first met, that he had _too many bastards_! So what, that was a lie? Some kind of claim to power or fear just to get me to submit? Power and territory can’t bring back what he lost, it can only make that loss real for others!”

Peter’s face scrunched. He hated Tony and Ferrum all the more, hated King Howard and even, for a brief moment, he hated Morgan Stark just for dying.

“Peter, the marriage wasn’t about your people it was —”

“I know, it was about _him_ , about his agenda and his funds! It was _easier_ than slaughtering everyone!” Peter snapped and rubbed at the tears streaming down his face.

Bruce studied his hands, “Peter, it wasn’t about money or efficiency. I don’t know what Tony told you but I think you need to ask him again why he wanted to marry you… He might tell you more, now.”

Peter wiped his nose and felt how hot his cheeks had become. “What do you mean?” He choked, his voice was garbled with emotion.

“It…” Bruce looked out the window again, the clouds had gotten darker and rolled heavy across the sky from a fierce wind. It made the red rain more vibrant. “I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you, Peter. But your uncle, I just… I really think you need to ask Tony.”

“No! I’m not going to go ask him just so he can hit me or threaten my country! Bruce, _why_ did he ask to marry me?”

Bruce couldn’t meet his gaze now, and it made Peter’s chest throb. Bruce had been someone he liked, and now he wasn’t so sure.

Bruce shook his head and stood up.

“I’m gonna go check on General Rhodes. I’ll take the shift tonight.” He mumbled, he scratched the back of his neck as he made his way to the stairs.

At the banister, he looked back and Peter wondered how he must look, face pink and eyes flushed with anger, black clouds and scarlet rain lacing the window behind him.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Peter.” And then Bruce went down the steps.

Peter turned back to the window and kicked the wall as hard as he could. Aside from a dull throb in his toes, he didn’t feel any better. He collapsed onto the bench and curled against the window, drawing the blue sheets up to his chin and squeezing his nails into his palms.

_A dead family._

_What else to do but take for himself until he was too powerful for someone to take from him again?_

It was stupid.

It was a waste.

A waste of resources, a waste of money, a waste of life.

_With great power comes great responsibility. All leaders should know this. I fear it is something Anthony Stark has lost sight of._

No, Tony hadn’t lost sight of that. He had never known it to begin with. He had been too consumed by hatred since he was a child. Forged by anger and then sparked by grief, his fire had never slowed in its destruction. He never stopped to appreciate the power he’d accumulated. He just kept taking, kept exacting his own revenge against the rest of the world.

_Anthony the Conqueror, what a monster I’ve been painted as._

But he _was_ a monster. He had been hammered and twisted into shape by an unlucky hand, but at some point Tony had to be responsible for his own actions. At some point, he had to understand the horror of what he’d done.

But it sounded like Howard had never taken pause to care or understand the weight of a crown. So maybe this wasn’t so surprising after all, that Tony would be exactly like his father.

Peter sniffled and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window. He had to keep his mouth open because he was crying so hard that it was difficult to breathe. He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut tight. His throat felt raw and sore when he swallowed. He wished for —

God, he didn’t even know what to wish for.

There wasn’t even anything he wanted anymore.

* * *

Peter started awake when thunder shook the whole library. The flash of lightning which followed made him squint and shy back. He fell right into someone’s hand and gasped, reeling to stand up or get away from them or —

“Whoa, Peter.” Peter stilled, choking on fresh sobs when Beck grabbed both of his wrists.

“Beck,” Peter sniffed and felt the blanket fall in clumps to the floor, one end still gripped tight in his hand.

Beck’s brow furrowed in concern and he reached out to touch Peter’s cheek.

“Kid, are you okay?”

Peter’s lip trembled and he shook his head. In one step, he discarded the sheet completely and wrapped both arms around Beck’s waist, pressing his face against the soldier’s chest.

Beck’s hands uncertainly squeezed his back, “Oh god, kid.”

“I’m sorry!” Peter choked out, and he felt Beck’s chin on the top of his head, shuddered in the sudden warmth of his embrace, in the peace that came with holding someone close.

“It’s okay, kid. Here, come here.” Beck didn’t sit down on the bench but instead led Peter to a corner of the loft and sat on the floor where the bookshelves met. He tucked his arm around Peter’s shoulder and drew him close to his side, squeezing tightly.

Peter hiccuped and breathed in the comforting scents of ink and paper. It was warmer here, further from the window, warmer with Beck so close to him.

“No one had seen you tonight,” Beck held a thumb to Peter’s cheek and wiped away the tears. “Bruce said you’d had a hard afternoon and that we should leave you alone, but then you never went to bed either and…” Beck trailed off.

“Beck,” Peter lifted his gaze so that their eyes met. He couldn’t quite decipher the way Beck was looking at him, like maybe he actually _cared_ about Peter.

“Beck, were you there when my uncle died?”

Beck immediately looked away and started to mumble, “I’m not allowed to talk to you about —”

“ _Please_!” Peter whimpered, closing the soldier’s hand in his and squeezing tightly, “Bruce… alluded to something and I — I _need_ to know.” Beck still didn’t make eye contact so Peter needled, “Beck… why am I marrying him?”

His voice cracked on the end and Beck let out a hissing sigh. They were both quiet a moment, but Peter knew the answer was coming. Knew Beck was just gathering his thoughts.

When Beck spoke, it was with delicacy, each word picked with care.

* * *

_King Benjamin Parker of Arachne was a man of integrity._

_Beck had known that before they crossed the border, though. Everyone had known that. To see him in person, seated calmly beside King Anthony, hair trimmed neatly and eyes focused, it was sort of exciting. Benjamin’s voice was firm with authority and every time he shifted or glanced around the tent he did so with calculated intention._

_General Rhodes was sitting at the table with both men, even though Anthony had drawled peace shouldn’t even be entertained. That had been declared when Benjamin’s entourage was still on the horizon._

_“We won’t reach a consensus, I don’t need to meet with him,” The king had said._

_Rhodes patted him on the back. Beck had watched the interaction thinking the general was one of very few men in the world who could get away with laying a hand on the king. “It’s okay to refuse his offer. But Tony you have to sit down, at least. There’s a… process to all of this.”_

_Anthony scoffed at that, but here they were._

_They had been talking for nearly two hours. Benjamin had arrived with grace and gotten straight to the point. He made a generous offer to stop the fighting now, to leave Ferrum and Arachne with the territory they each still claimed. Anthony refused, and so Benjamin opened up negotiations of eliminating tariffs, increasing exports between the nations, even offered another third of Arachne’s remaining territory. But Anthony wasn’t interested in compromise, he never had been. If this frustrated or surprised the king of Arachne, he didn’t show it._

_The ink on the table seemed to be festering in the heat. Maybe Benjamin was beginning to realise the futility ofhis mission because he cleared his throat and dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead._

_“Anthony, it appears to me that we are not going to come to an agreement,” Benjamin declared. Across the tent, Beck’s shoulders sagged a bit in relief. The sooner their visitors from Arachne were on their way, the sooner all of this sentry formality could be eased._

_Benjamin stood up and slipped his gauntlet off his hand. Beck felt his eyes widen slightly as the leather smacked into the centre of the table. A challenge. That was… interesting. Beck hadn’t expected this from this collected, placid man._

_“Would you indulge me in a challenge, Anthony? I’m no fool, and I have heard impressive tales of your strength, but I would be remiss not to at least try and defend my people.” As Benjamin spoke, he cast his eyes around the tent and stretched his back, as if he had not just suggested a duel between kings, as if he was not discussing his own death._

_The truth was, Beck was glad for the distraction from the humidity. And he was grateful that he was not the one fighting, he was not weighed down by sheaves of steel and swinging his sword through the sultry air._

_The duel itself was on the plains outside. Both men fought well, but the king of Arachne was not a warrior. He had never fought a war or led an invading army. And he was at least ten years Anthony’s senior. So under the pressures of metal and heat, elements which Anthony had mastered in youth, Benjamin’s knees buckled._

_It was a bit pathetic, Beck thought. To see a king’s entire life reduced to grass stains and a face flushed pink with sweat. It was sad to watch Ferrum’s king approach and lift his sword. A shame for the world to lose someone like King Benjamin._

_And then even with all the open air around them, even with the murmur and swell of the watching crowd, Benjamin’s voice carried across the field:_

_“Please.”_

_Anthony sneered, “you’ve lost, Benjamin. But this will be quick.”_

_“King Anthony,” his voice croaked, and he put himself even lower to the ground, holding his hands up in supplication. Anthony hesitated, Beck stirred from his own position. What must it feel like to have such a respected figure on their knees before you? Putting their life in your hands? Beck took a few paces forward, eyes riveted on his own king when Benjamin gasped:_

_“Not me, sir, but my_ nephew _. Please, spare Peter.”_

_Beck clasped his hands behind his back. He knew King Anthony was aware of so many eyes on the two of them, knew everyone was watching his consideration, his hesitation._

_Beck looked back at Bruce and General Rhodes, who had both crossed their arms. Beck had heard rumours, as all people from Ferrum had, about their king’s family. About his daughter._

_King Anthony lifted his voice to be certain his army would hear him: “What would you have me do? Lock him in a dungeon the rest of his days? Sacrifice the resources of my own land to keep him in comfort? And appear weak to my enemies?” His face softened the slightest bit and he shook his head, “I’m sorry, Benjamin.”_

_He lifted his sword and Benjamin lifted his eyes to him. From this angle, Beck could see one side of the man’s face, could hear the strangled weakness of the cry that tore from his throat, and the desperate plea that echoed all around them:_

_“Marry him, then!”_

_Anthony looked like he’d been struck. Benjamin doubled over again, his face pressed to the feet of Ferrum’s king as he sobbed and rocked, weak and broken._

_“Please, if you can do nothing else, then please… marry him.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday everyone!  
> Since Chapter 7, I have teamed up with Silver Lurker who is betareading for me! I can't speak for her, but in just a few days I have had tons of fun working on the plot and characters and running ideas by her. We've both been up to wee hours this week talking over some genius ideas and brilliant critical questions. Her help has been invaluable and it makes me all the more excited to share the product with you all moving forward.  
> I hope everyone has a great weekend!  
> Grace


	9. Fever Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of his uncle's final moments sends Peter reeling. Meanwhile, Tony needs to confront an old fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 warnings: Severe symptoms of anxiety, detailed description of a panic attack, explicit discussion and description of mental and physical illness.

_Marry him._

That statement — that horrifying _claim —_ made Peter recoil. He’d been leaning against Beck with the soldier’s arm around him, so the sharp movement caused Beck’s nails to sting, dragging against Peter’s shoulder as he pulled away.

“You’re _lying_!” Peter snarled while Beck withdrew both arms, looking alarmed at the ferocity in Peter’s voice.

Beck’s eyes searched his, pleading for understanding — maybe even for forgiveness, even though by his account he’d done nothing wrong.

“Peter, I wish this wasn’t true, but — Peter, stop! Where are you going?” Peter’s breathing was hoarse as he climbed to his feet, a prickly warmth was snaking its way up his legs and down his forearms. He lurched away from Beck, his body caught somewhere between the urge to sprint and to collapse.

He passed the bench with his discarded books and papers, and was almost at the steps down into the library when Beck grabbed his wrist and yanked him back, “Peter, you can’t just —”

“You’re _lying_ ,” Peter repeated, voice choking on the need for his own accusation to be true. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut while a tremor darted from the soles of his feet to the top of his forehead. “You’re lying, Beck. Tell me you’re lying, he didn’t — he didn’t _ask_ for this, he didn’t _want_ this — you’re ly…” Peter gulped as if he couldn’t get enough air, it felt like he was drowning in the grief of truth.

He shook his head, a dull buzz aching from his scalp to his jaw. He wanted to cry but couldn’t, couldn’t conjure any tears. There was only the thrum of something breaking, something tearing along all of its seams and being shredded apart.

But what was the point in lying? Wasn’t this precise reaction the reason that Bruce had been so reticent to tell him? Wouldn’t this — Peter’s life and the relative safety of Arachne’s remaining citizens — be exactly the sort of thing Uncle Benjamin would want? Michelle had wanted him to say yes too, wanted Peter to submit himself to this hell for the sake of his people because — because — because —

Because with great power comes great responsibility.

“Kid —”

“Don’t call me that.” Peter tugged Beck’s hand off of his shoulder, “L-leave me — leave me alone,” the instruction was breathless as he turned back toward the stairs.

Then Beck’s hand was on his arm again and the last fragments of Peter’s patience snapped. He rounded with a shout.

“ _Don’t touch me_!”

Beck drew back like he’d been stung but still Peter lurched backward, “Stop touching me, stop grabbing me, stop hitting me! Just — just —” He glared at Beck but felt like he was shouting at the world — certainly a part of him was shouting at Tony.

His head was more than buzzing now, it was _screaming_. A high-pitched white that whirled from one ear to the other and filled all the spaces in between.

Peter’s face crumpled and everything — every sleepless night, every choked-back tear, every nightmare, every slap, every punch, every skipped heartbeat — began to spill from the cracks crawling through his mind.

“Just make this _stop_.”

Peter started to fall, his body shaking and eyes fixed straight ahead. He vaguely felt his own body jerk when Beck grabbed him just too late, because then his feet flew out from under him and he was tumbling down the steps.

“ _Peter_!”

Peter landed, curled on his side with a gasp, but no other sound escaped him. It didn’t even feel like he could breathe properly, he certainly couldn’t pick himself up. He just stared at the floor beside his cheek, felt the muscles in his elbows squeezing tighter and tighter.

_Morgan was everything to Tony._

_Everything he had earned was snatched away too._

_It’s the only way, Peter. Give him your hand or your kingdom._

_Marry him._

“P-Peter?” Beck lurched onto one knee at the bottom of the steps. “God, okay. St-stay here!” Beck stood up again and dimly Peter heard him running, heard the library door open and close.

He must have been breathing. He was the only one here, so those shallow breaths must be him. Peter lifted a hand to touch the weight on his chest, to try and pull it away from where it was strangling his lungs and squeezing his heart, but there was nothing there. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to anchor himself or to release the pressure roaring in his head. His heart was racing so fast that Peter thought for a moment, mind locked in a haze, that he was going to die. This thing was going to crush him, suffocate him, tear his heart in two.

He heard voices. He made out footsteps which were far too loud in the grey light clouding his peripheral vision. Someone’s hand touched his cheek and it was searingly hot.

“Wh-why is he so _cold_?”

“Beck, step back. Hey, hey… Peter?” That was Bruce’s voice. Bruce was the person Peter _liked_. Bruce was the man from Ferrum who just asked questions about the rain. Peter blinked when he was very forcibly moved to sit up. Immediately he slumped forward, weighed down by whatever it was wringing out his heart. Bruce’s hand helped steady him, but it felt like he was standing across the road from him. Like he was seeing Bruce through shadows on all sides and that he was very far away.

“Peter, can you hear me?”

Peter must have answered, must have managed a tight nod or to croak out “Yes.” All he was really aware of though was the weight in his chest. It was sinking down, as if trying to flatten him into the floor.

“Beck, I’m gonna take him to bed. Can you clean up his stuff upstairs? Do you know what happened?”

 _His stuff_. Peter felt like that was wrong, felt like he should be the only one holding those papers or handling things near the bench. It was his mother’s bench after all, it was _her_ nook in the library. It was no business of these men from Ferrum.

“I just found him like this, maybe he fell down the steps?” Beck’s voice was terribly distant, suspended in the air and crashing over them like sheets of humid rain in the summer. He sounded kind, he sounded _concerned_. It was confusing, because Peter should hate him. Peter was supposed to hate them — no, Peter was supposed to…

To marry them?

That didn’t seem right either.

Peter grunted when Bruce stood up, lifting the prince into his arms. “It’s alright Peter. I’m right here.”

But there was someone else, someone who shouldn’t be…

Peter twisted in Bruce’s arms as they started toward the door. Beck was still somewhere in here, and that wasn’t good. 

“Beck’s just putting your books away, it’s okay. You’re okay, Peter.” Bruce put a hand on his head, tucked Peter’s face against his chest, and whispered, “Just close your eyes.” So Peter did.

* * *

Rhodey was halfway through his beer when he bothered to ask, “Did you check if I’m allowed to be drinking?”

Tony grinned and sat back in his chair. Rhodey was still in bed in the infirmary, but he was able to stay awake most of the day. He could talk, could play cards, had even been able to consult on some unrest in the southern part of Arachne.

“You know, I didn’t ask.” Tony answered with a shrug, “But I’m sure if something goes wrong it can’t be any worse than where you’ve been.” Rhodey shook his head but reached for the glass on the bedside table again. Encouraged, Tony added, “Anyway you’ve earned it.”

Rhodey swallowed and grunted, “And if our people fall short, that kid can figure something out.”

Tony squinted at that, not quite liking the insinuation. Rhodey and Bruce had already probed the subject of Peter training their medics, but the suggestion didn’t sit well with Tony. No matter how smart Peter proved to be, no matter how desperate his uncle had looked on his knees, he was still just a fallen noble. A fallen _enemy_ , at that. Putting him in any position of authority, much less in charge of training men to save lives, had the potential to wreak havoc.

“So,” Rhodey raised his eyebrows, “you gonna put that big brain of yours to use and design something for me to walk on?”

Tony swirled his drink, watching the dregs of foam at the bottom. He wanted to give an encouraging, optimistic promise, but the prospect worried him. Two weeks ago, he had never considered the possibility of someone without four limbs; Peter had elucidated a little on the subject of rudimentary prosthetics and supports, but even he admitted Arachne could save lives through amputation, but they weren’t very good at ensuring quality of life.

Tony didn’t like the idea of designing something that might not work. That might not measure up to his own standards.

His head swivelled when someone knocked. Beck stood fidgeting in the doorway.

“Beck, tell Jarvis. I’m busy.”

“Yes, milord. But it’s just —”

“I’m sorry, did you not _hear_ me?” Tony sat up with an amused smile but he kept his eyes hard, a warning.

“I — yes, sir, but we thought —”

Beck grunted when he was pushed out of the way as Bruce stepped into the room. 

“Tony, it’s Peter. He collapsed in the library, he’s…” Bruce trailed off, wringing his hands and rubbing his palms together, “we’re not completely sure what happened, but he’s in a sort of state…”

Tony cleared his throat and set his glass down on the bedside table. He looked at Beck and then Bruce.

“You don’t know what happened?” He repeated.

“We — well,” Bruce put a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed anxiously, “I was speaking with him earlier today and he got upset. But I just thought, that made sense. With everything that’s happened to him, and we were talking about… about his family. I left him alone this afternoon and then Beck found him in the library, not responding. So we took him to bed but —”

“He’s asleep now?”

“Umm, yes.”

“And he’s breathing?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, thank you for telling me. Let me know when he’s better, you can both go to bed.”

Rhodey’s tongue clicked, he practically sounded disgusted. Bruce shifted on his feet and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, wanted to argue. Beck crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway, staring out of the room. No one looked at one another, Tony hated how he could feel the ensuing silence growing taut. The tension in the air stood suspended on a thread about to snap.

But no, not even. This wasn’t a string snipped in two; this was a dam which was going to burst.

Rhodey was the first wave to crash, “Tony… don’t you think maybe you should… at least check in on him in the morning?”

Emboldened by this, Bruce quickly added, “He was really shaken tonight. I thought maybe he hit his head but couldn’t find a bump. We’ll need to check more when he wakes up but… I don’t think this will be as simple as us letting you know when he’s better.”

Tony grimaced, “I’m _definitely_ not the friendly face to cheer him up,” he scoffed, “come on — you said yourself you got him all upset talking about his family.” He pointed straight at Bruce, “If anything, this is your fault.” He tried to smile, but any humour in the air fell flat and awkward.

Bruce said quietly, “I think we can all agree this isn’t _only_ my fault, Tony.”

Tony sat back with a hiss and turned his head away, not wanting to look at any of them.

 _Beck found him not responding._ What the hell did that even mean? The kid fell asleep? Why did that have everyone so bent out of shape?

“Tony,” Bruce swallowed, he kept fidgeting with his clothes, “I think we need to think about... He’s been under a lot of stress, way more than someone his age should be —”

“ _His age_ ?” Tony snapped, “King Steven was crowned at sixteen, _that_ might come with some stress! This kid had a ring and a life of comfort handed to him at eighteen! We’ve all been in worse straits, I’m sorry if I don’t feel much sympathy for him.”

Rhodey groaned, “Oh, _God_ , Tony,” and stared at him in exasperation, “you _can’t_ mean that!”

No, he didn’t. Tony _knew_ that there was a lot more to this than _a ring and a life of comfort_. But what did the kid know about it? What did the Privileged Prince Peter Parker really know about suffering?

“Look, _that_ is a whole different argument.” Bruce waved his hand idly, “the point is: he’s been under stress, he’s probably not sleeping, he’s not eating —”

“He _is_ eating —”

“Tony! I’m sorry if I doubt your word right now, but is he _really_ eating? You kept an eye out for a couple of days, but when was the last meal you two shared? Probably when Rhodey here still had two legs.”

Everyone looked at the general, who held both hands up as if he was proving innocence: “Hey, you were all there, you don’t need to look so shocked about it.”

“Alright, enough!” Tony stood up and straightened his doublet, “We’re probably _overreacting_ , anyway.” He grumbled but stared right at Bruce: “We’ve all underestimated him, and he’s proven us all wrong before. He’ll probably be fine in the morning. Come get me if you really need me to do something.” Tony stepped around Rhodey’s bed and made for the exit. Beck and Bruce both shuffled to get out of his way when he left and marched straight out of the infirmary.

Tony dragged a hand through his hair and blew out the breath he’d been holding. He stopped when he reached the end of the hall, staring out open doors into a stone cloister. It had been raining all day and he could still hear it drizzling now. Seriously, what was with this country’s crops? It rained way too often for them to grow as well as they did. 

Tony stepped outside and stretched his hand out to catch a few drops of rain, marvelling at how the strange russet colour did not burn like the legends said; it was just rain. A sort of ugly too-bright red that swam in the moonlight, but ultimately just rain.

The kid liked the rain here. It was a shame for him to miss this.

Then Tony shook his head, he didn’t need to waste any time or energy worrying. The kid would be fine in the morning.

* * *

Peter wasn’t fine in the morning.

Tony ate breakfast alone and listened to fervent whispers:

“The young prince has been weeping and tossing all night — Maya said he was shaking when she went in, couldn’t even look at her.”

“Och! Damn shame, bit sad to think of those pretty eyes all crazed.”

“Bit like a wounded puppy, isn’t he?”

“Or a little piglet, hmm, running from the big bad wolf?”

Peals of laughter.

Tony caught one of the girls by the arm at the end of his meal. He dug his nails into her skin and jerked her close to his side, not making eye contact.

“If I hear another word about Prince Peter’s illness, or the comparison of _any_ member of my household to an animal — I’ll know who to blame, won’t I?”

The girl squeaked and stammered but couldn’t answer. She didn’t have to; Tony let her go, satisfied that she got the message.

But when he got to his office he found himself distracted. He kept having to reread everything, or ask people to repeat themselves.

Finally, around midmorning, he asked, “Jarvis, have you heard from Bruce this morning?”

Jarvis rubbed his eyes and looked up from his own stack of papers and law books.

“He says the prince is sick, sir. Thinks you should check in.” He paused a moment to tap excess ink off the end of his quill, “I told him you’ve a full day.”

That was a pretty standard response when anyone needed Tony added to their schedule. But then Jarvis levelled his eyes and stared at Tony, lips pursed and brow slightly furrowed. Tony shifted under his gaze. Unable to tell what Jarvis was thinking, Tony didn’t like the apparent criticism in his eyes.

He waved his hand a bit and pivoted the conversation, “Alright, Jarvis, thank you. How are things coming with the contracts? Or do you need three _more_ weeks to get through everything?”

Jarvis wasn’t even fazed by this comment. He just shook his head and bent his head back to his papers, “They will be finished when they’re finished, milord. Arachne’s code of law is quite sophisticated and your betrothed was more than familiar with the proceedings.”

So Tony stayed away from Peter’s rooms.

He spent a while writing, helping Jarvis discuss a backlog of court cases for when proceedings resumed after the wedding.

He went to oversee siege repairs at the southern walls.

He met with Rhodey and Happy and other leaders in Ferrum’s military to discuss casualties, wages, training.

But no matter what he worked on, he couldn’t kick the urge to be doing something else. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to _build_. Wanted to piece something together, wanted the satisfaction of repairing instead of breaking.

Breaking, was that what he was doing? That’s probably what Peter would call it, but —

God, he _had_ to stop thinking about this _kid_. He was nothing, he was a favour to an admirable king, he was —

“Tony.”

Tony turned from the office window. He had come and gone all day, had not taken lunch or dinner, now that he was paying attention he realised the sun had set and it was dark outside — he must have been standing for a very long time. He was being stupid, wasting so much time.

Bruce stepped the rest of the way into the office. He was holding a tray, but one glance at the contents confirmed it wasn’t for Tony. Even from across the room, Tony could make out the heady scent of wine spiced with herbs. And the meal was pitifully light, a sick meal.

Bruce put the tray down on the desk and cleared his throat. He raised his eyebrows and Tony thought he looked tired, needed to shave, Bruce’s voice sounded a little strained when he asked, “Long day?”

Tony ignored the question, leaning back against the wall and staring at his feet. “I take it the boy isn’t doing any better?”

Bruce scoffed and shook his head. “No,” he bit out. “No, your _fiancé. Peter._ Is _not_ feeling better.”

Tony tried his best to look annoyed, or angry, when he lifted his head, but he could never quite pull that off with Bruce. Bruce had known him too long, had known a _different_ Tony, so his shoulders slumped and he shook his head.

“You can’t really think it’s a good idea for me to see him.”

“Look, Tony, I only have so much time, and I know you’re already feeling the repercussions of letting a servant in there.” Tony reflected on the conversation at breakfast and gritted his teeth. Before he could respond, before he could rattle off a list of other trustworthy names, Bruce was already forging ahead: “Beck? Not an option, the man is useless in a sickroom — and most other places, but we can talk about that some other time. Jarvis is up to his eyeballs in legal documents. Happy’s in town all day making sure your soldiers stay in line. And Rhodey’s…” He took a deep breath. “Tony, _obviously_ I don’t think it’ll be good for Peter to see you—”

“See that makes sense,” Tony interrupted, holding a hand out to stop Bruce from talking. Bruce cut off with a glare but Tony continued, “Obviously it’s not a good idea. The kid hates me. But also, we all remember what happened the last time I took care of a sick person. Right?”

Bruce shook his head and turned away, crossing his arms. “Look, you’re marrying him in just over a week. A lot of people in and outside of this castle are counting on that and it will be _very_ awkward if he dies before that happens. You’re going to be his _husband_ , Tony. This is what husbands do, whether they have a crown on their head or not. But, hell...” Bruce’s arms dropped to his sides. He took a deep breath and his hands clenched as he growled, “I... am _exhausted_. I have been tending to Peter since this morning, early, and you will _not_ like me if I don’t get some goddamn sleep. Which will not be happening unless _you_ step up and go take care of the boy that you have sworn to be responsible for. I am _not_ leaving him alone. What’s it going to be, Tony?”

Tony’s answer was to march across the room, snatch the plate and goblet from the tray, and head toward the door. He heard Bruce hurry after him, and an overly optimistic (and somewhat sarcastic) shout:

“Be gentle, he’s really hurting! I’m proud of you!”

Tony rolled his eyes.

He didn’t know what he expected; maybe to hear screaming from four halls away. He _at least_ expected something when he reached the door to Peter’s room, whimpering or crying, perhaps. But there was nothing. Tony awkwardly worked the handle and pushed the door open with his hands full, hesitating just inside.

The curtains were drawn and there weren’t any lanterns, so all Tony could see was Peter illuminated by a slice of moonlight and the faint flickering of a torch burning behind him in the hallway. The scent of sickness, that familiar lingering sourness, permeated the air. Tony hesitated a moment, closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath. Something about this — the darkness, the fragrant drugged wine, the sight of the small figure buried in blankets — made him dizzy. It opened that old crater in his chest.

God, he couldn’t do this. Tony started to turn away. He was _the king_ , he could just get someone else to give the kid his medicine and threaten to cut out their tongue if they —

In the room, Peter shifted in bed. And then the boy croaked:

“Uncle Ben?”

Tony gasped and turned to make for a quicker exit, but then Peter was rustling and throwing the blankets off of himself.

“Uncle Ben!”

_Oh, god._

“Peter, stay in bed!” Tony winced, his voice a harsh whisper. He half-hoped the words would snap Peter out of his delirium. Peter froze in place, and Tony stepped further into the room. He strode through the thin line of moonlight to reach the boy, pausing just a moment to put the plate and cup down on the bedside table. He put a hand on Peter’s chest, the boy was gasping for air now, reaching out and tugging on Tony’s shirt.

“Uncle Ben, I’m sorry — I’m s-suh-suh-so, _so_ sorry, I c-couldn’t — he said — I —”

“Peter, hush, hey. Peter.” Tony put a trembling hand to Peter’s forehead and helped him to sit back against the pillows and headboard. He let his fingers brush the hair from the boy’s forehead, wrinkled his nose at the sour scent of sweat all around them. Peter’s skin was clammy and burning from his fever, it made the hairs on Tony’s neck stand on end, his senses dredging up memories that were years and miles away.

Once Peter had settled, Tony pulled over the chair from its place by the dresser. He sat as close to the bed as he could, quickly tucking Peter’s blankets up around him, but Peter pushed them back to free his hand, reaching out for Tony.

Tony swallowed and drew himself back, grabbing for the cup of medicine. “You’re sick Peter, you need to hold this. Here. Drink this.” This finally seemed to stall the kid’s incessant need to be touching him.

Peter’s hands were shaking as they lifted the medicine to his lips but he drank three huge gulps. Tony took the cup from him, he smiled at the studious twitch of Peter’s eyebrows as he licked his lips.

He blinked when he looked at Tony, like maybe the man was out of focus. Tony supposed that was in his favour.

“Mmm, May forgot the osha root again.”

Tony had to bite his bottom lip to not laugh out loud. Even in the throes of a frantic sunset delusion, the kid could parse out medical ingredients for his own symptoms, could label what was missing.

“I’ll let her know,” Tony said and sat back. Peter’s gaze flickered around the room. He sat up straight and let out a heavy sigh.

“Uncle Ben,” Peter’s voice cracked and he reached up to knuckle over his eyes, “I d-d-don’t want — I don’t want —”

“Peter, it’s okay.” Tony whispered, not liking how Peter’s voice bled out all around them, any trace of composure gone. It wasn’t normal. Except for that last time Tony had struck him, the kid had always been controlled, self-contained, astute… This was bad. 

“It’s _not_ ,” Peter shook his head, “It’s not — he — he _hurts_ people — he’s a — he’s a _bad_ king, he —”

Tony cleared his throat, his voice cold. “Hard to win a war without hurting people, Peter.” Then he grinned and quipped, “Unless you spend all your time taking care of enemy generals, that is.”

Peter hiccuped and immediately Tony felt regret wash over him. _Be gentle_ , Bruce’s words rang in his ears. What was he doing? Mocking the kid? When he was sick and delusional?

Tony closed his eyes, why was he so bad at this? The centre of his chest throbbed and he reached up to rub at it. After a moment he opened his eyes again, but Peter was shaking his head.

“He wasn’t _the enemy_ anymore, you know,” he said, “I took his deal, I said yes, I — I — I sold myself out. They’re my responsibility now too.”

Tony scratched his chin, wishing that the warm feeling in his stomach would go away. Every one of them, every person from Ferrum? Would he think that? Would he put their lives on his own shoulders so readily? 

Peter drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his hands. “I thought I’d be dead by now,” he gasped, “I thought I’d be with you when — I — I was going to — I got — I got to — to say goodbye to Ned and May and Michelle but — y-y-you sent me _home!_ People still _needed_ me — _you_ st-st-still — And I — I never —” Peter’s voice started to slur and gasp, his breathing picked up again and Tony leaned forward.

“Peter.” The sound of his own name made Peter look up at him, and it occurred to Tony that no one was supposed to look normal with bloodshot eyes, with dark circles on their cheekbones that stood out even in the dimmest light. This was the look of Peter he had grown used to, but it was not how _anyone_ was supposed to live their life.

 _Pampered Prince Peter_. Maybe… just because the kid’s stomach had never growled, just because he’d been raised a noble in this prosperous country, it didn’t mean...

Tony put his hand on Peter’s cheek, thumbing away the tears rolling down the bridge of his nose, “It’s okay, Peter. You need to rest now, you need to sleep.” Peter coughed and let Tony ease his head back onto the pillows, let Tony run his fingers through his hair and carefully massage the top of his scalp.

The action seemed to soothe him, and he whispered: “I want to go with you.”

“I know,” Tony murmured, “I know, but you’ll see me again. I promise.”

Peter shook his head emphatically, hard enough that Tony had to pull his hand back.

“I’m not going to — to make it there, where you are.” Peter sobbed, “you need to tell them for me because I — after — I — I won’t be able to —”

“Shh, Peter.” Tony reached down and used his free hand to grip Peter’s, squeezing it as hard as he could. “You’re okay, shhh.”

“I won’t — I won't go where you are. They won’t let me in — after — I’ll j-just be dirty and tainted and — and — they were right. I’m no better than a whore. Worse. So much worse. A _traitor_ … Uncle Ben...”

 _What?_ Did Peter have some bizarre idea that marrying him to end this war — saving his own _life_ — meant he was going to hell? Was he planning to just not eat, to neglect himself until he died? Or was he genuinely considering _killing_ himself? The ‘whore’ comment made Tony’s stomach churn — how _dare_ the boy’s people call him that. After what he’d done, what he’d _sacrificed_ for them. They didn’t understand; King Benjamin had been the only person to recognise just how —

Tony swallowed and forced his mind back to the reality of the dark bedroom. It wouldn’t do for him to lose control of his thoughts, to forget Peter’s role in all of this.

Peter’s muscles had finally relaxed, his sobs had subsided and he was just mewling quietly. Tony decided not to press the subject, not when the boy was so close now to sleep.

“I’ll see you again, Peter. Shshh.” Peter turned his face away, expression twisting in grief and exhaustion. Tony sat with him a while though, rubbing circles on the back of his hand, stroking the top of his head, murmuring softly: “Go to sleep, shh, go to sleep now. You’ll be okay. Sleep now.”

The truth was, he stayed longer than he needed to.

* * *

Peter woke up certain he had inhaled seawater.

His throat burned and when he breathed in the air got caught on his swollen, dry tongue. Choking and spluttering, Peter was yanked the rest of the way to consciousness and he sat up coughing.

“Peter!”

Peter looked up and blinked the tears from his eyes until he could focus on Bruce. The man was sitting at his desk, reading a book. Peter lifted a trembling hand to his dry throat and scratched at the outside of it, as if that could relieve the immense soreness.

“Here, I’ve got some water.” Bruce put his book down and hurried forward with a glass. Peter took it with a trembling hand and, supporting that elbow with his other arm, took a few cautious sips.

He pulled his fingers through his hair and looked around. It seemed to be the middle of the day, but he was sure he’d been in the library at night.

Bruce’s hand on his forehead made him flinch away and he croaked out, “Library.” But the ragged sound of his own voice was horrifyingly weak, like someone had shredded his vocal cords. Peter drained the rest of the water, body trembling with relief even while protesting any presence in his parched throat.

“Hold on, I’m gonna get you more water and another round of medicine.” Bruce took the cup and hurried out, leaving Peter alone.

Peter rubbed his eyes and swallowed a few times, head pounding each time his jaw so much as twitched.

Had the library only been last night? What had happened? He’d collapsed or fallen down the stairs or — or —

Then it started to filter back to him: sitting with Bruce and talking about the rain. That had been normal. Then the story about Tony and his daughter. And then Beck and —

_Uncle Benjamin._

_Marry him._

_Right._

Peter groaned and blinked a few times, yawning. Was that story true? It must have been, Beck didn’t have much reason to lie to him. But —

“Peter?” Peter looked up and a wan, lazy smile fixed itself to his lips. _Speak of the devil — or, perhaps an angel._

“I passed Bruce and he said you were more alert,” Beck stepped into the room, “you really scared us.”

“Yeah,” Peter croaked, “I’m sorry. But Beck, the story you told me —”

“Wait, Peter, about that.” Beck cast his eyes around the room, like maybe he was afraid someone was listening in on them, “I — I didn’t tell anyone else that you know, about your uncle. And — and I said that I found you in the library _after_ you fell down the stairs. I’m sorry — I tried to catch you, I really did. But — I just thought it might be safer to say —”

“Yeah, no, yeah,” Peter shook his head and waved his hand quickly, “of course. But Beck, the story you told me last night. That was… was that all true?”

Beck’s brow furrowed and he stepped closer to Peter, lowering his voice as if they were exchanging hushed secrets. “Yeah, that was true but, Peter, we were in the library _five days_ ago.”

Five _days_? Peter reached up to touch the throbbing spot on the top of his forehead.

“Are you okay?” Beck asked urgently, “are you going to — do you need anything or —”

“No, I’m alright,” Peter waved him off, “my throat is just sore. I’m not going to — have another —” He exhaled by blowing out a big breath of air, “I hadn’t realised how long I was out.”

“Well you were really sick,” Beck said, still hanging back a few steps. It was a strange amount of space, Peter thought, considering how Beck held him in the library just a few days ago. The way he had touched Peter’s hips and the soft lilt of his voice when he told his story — the only person willing to tell Peter the truth. Peter was sure he was overthinking it but it sort of _hurt_ now, for Beck to stand so far from him.

But the library, even all that time ago, something felt wrong about it to Peter. He had been with Beck, heard the story about Uncle Benjamin, and then… Bruce had been there but… he was forgetting something. Had there been someone else or — or had he let something slip?

“Beck...” He looked up, not quite knowing what he wanted to ask or how he wanted to ask it. But Beck just nodded, eyes wide and inviting and eager to help in any way he could.

“Beck, did you —”

“Beck, would you excuse us?” Peter’s eyes darted to the door and Beck drew back even further across the room, back straightening when he saw Tony.

Peter didn’t even attempt to stop the scowl which crossed his face. “What are you doing here?” He asked, the strain in his throat made his voice crack and a blush crept onto his cheeks.

Tony’s lips twitched with that haughty, _annoying_ little smile. “Bruce said you’d woken up. I’ve been bringing you your medicine for four days, Prince Peter.”

Peter swallowed, growing more uneasy at the second confirmation of how long he’d been out of sorts. Had he said or done anything to endanger himself? To endanger his people?

When no one spoke for a moment, Beck added, “It’s true, Peter. He’s been here, taking care of you.”

Tony’s eyes flicked to Beck, and he tilted his head slightly toward the door. Beck nodded to both of them before scurrying out.

Tony stepped forward then and put a glass of water in Peter’s hand. Despite how parched he was, Peter hesitated, not taking his eyes off Tony and the other cup in his hand.

“Bruce said you’re thirsty.” Tony said when Peter still didn’t move, so Peter sipped the water.

Then he croaked, “I was out for a while, I guess.”

“Five days,” Tony nodded, “started to wonder if we would need to postpone.”

Peter drained the water and Tony swapped out the cups, leaving Peter with a thick red drink, a spiced wine brewed with herbs. No wonder he’d been so thirsty.

Peter didn’t answer the comment, didn’t want to dignify Tony with any acknowledgment that the wedding was even happening — that it meant anything to him one way or the other. This was a man who had watched his uncle beg on his knees, and who still refused to give any quarter.

“But you’ve been coming by?” Peter asked.

Tony shrugged and looked around the room, his nose flaring a bit like he smelled something rotten. Peter supposed if he’d been in bed and ill for this long then he probably didn’t smell _good_. “Well, you’ve been asleep almost — well, every time I suppose.”

Peter nodded and finally took a drink of the medicine. As soon as the concoction hit his tongue, his head snapped forward again and he choked, almost retching across the bed as he coughed.

Tony finally reacted to that, “What is it — are you okay?” His hands started to flutter out uncertainly, almost like he wanted to hold Peter.

Peter shook his head and coughed, “I’m okay —” he wheezed, “I’m okay, I just wasn’t —” he stopped to hack for a moment. Tony looked nearly _amused_.

“I — wasn’t expecting for there to be — for Ferrum’s doctors to know to use osha root, is all. It — it has a strong flavour.”

Tony nodded at that. A smirk played on his lips, but he didn’t answer. Assured that Peter was okay — that Peter seemed to be back to normal — his entire demeanour relaxed.

With Tony standing above the bed, looking down his nose at him, Peter wondered if this was how his uncle had felt at the mercy of this mad king. Disgusted, he shifted away before holding his nose and taking another gulp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update, Sep 5: Hi all, some pretty major Real Life events have happened in the past few hours that have me worried about my ability to write and update in a somewhat timely manner. IF I'm gone a couple weeks, just know that all is well. Don't fret, I'm coming back and the story will see itself through to the end. (It is also possible I'll be able to write and upload normally!)
> 
> Original Author's Note:  
> Okay folks, I don't even know how to describe how much fun it's been working with my phenomenal betareader Silver Lurker. She's bringing so many brilliant ideas to the table and working with her is an absolute delight.  
> Writing from Tony's perspective was so weird! But fortunately, even if Tony's not such a good person right now, he has some good friends to help straighten him out and keep him in line (and don't we all need that from time to time?)  
> As always, don't hesitate to let me know what you think, what you like, what you hate, what you're scared of, what you hope for!  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	10. Broken Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to say what's louder on Peter's wedding day: the music or his own heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 warnings: Anxiety (what? in this fic?) and a tiny bit of excoriation (skin picking) at the end.
> 
> Recap so far: Prince Peter of Arachne has agreed to marry King Tony of Ferrum for his country's safety. Peter has recently learned that his uncle asked Tony to marry him to spare the prince’s life. This caused Peter to have a mental breakdown and Tony was forced to take care of him. Peter came to 5 days before the wedding. Outside of his rocky relationship with Tony, Peter is working on a poison to kill the king. He's also befriended Bruce Banner and Quentin Beck, both from Ferrum.

Peter choked back a hiss as another stray hair was plucked from his eyebrows. He shifted in his seat, barely able to see his own reflection in the mirror; there were too many hands primping and tugging, servants muttering and giggling, offhand remarks being tossed about like Peter was not even present.

“Terribly unruly, these curls,”

“Anything for his cheeks? He’s all skin and bones,”

“ _Tsk_ , someone didn’t sleep well — look at these bags!”

Peter tried to keep himself as still as possible, letting the comments roll over his head. He reminded himself that everyone felt nervous on their wedding day, everyone fussed over their appearance, he just —

He wished it were May and Ned, instead of this blonde woman, _Christine_ , with shrewd eyes and a legion of Ferrumean girls at her command. Her nails stung when she dragged them through his hair.

“Really, Prince Peter, you should smile!” Christine chided, her other hand patting him on the back a bit too hard, “Else people will think you’re being led to the altar in chains! Don’t you want to please the king today?”

Behind them, one of the girls giggled, “I expect it’ll be more important to please the king to _night_ ,” and the room broke into fits of laughter.

Christine flippantly reminded the girls to be respectful and _know their place_ , but heat flashed up to the nape of Peter’s neck. He screwed his eyes shut tight and exhaled loudly, his mind began to whirl and a familiar knot tightened in his chest.

Then Bruce’s voice cut through the fog, somewhere in the doorway behind them. “Mistress Everhart, I think the Prince is ready. Why don’t we give him some space.”

Peter faintly heard footsteps moving farther and farther away. He sort of wanted to open his eyes but was afraid the world would be spinning. On top of that, his breath was quick and shallow again.

“Peter,” Bruce’s hand was on his shoulder, he peeled his eyes open.

“I’m okay,” Peter whispered, “th- thank you for…” he licked his lips and the buzzing in his head seemed to triple. Peter anxiously reached for the desk drawer and the folded letter within, thumbing over the embossed parchment and thick ink. He didn’t read it, he didn’t need to. He pictured Ben’s steady hand guiding the quill, grey dawn just barely cresting the horizon the morning he left to meet King Anthony.

Had Ben known that he would offer Peter’s hand in marriage? Kept it in his back pocket even then? Or had the idea come to him in a rush, in a desperate panic as death loomed under a too-hot sun?

“You look fine,” Bruce reassured him, pulling up a chair to sit next to Peter, “I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, but the suit looks good on you.”

Peter laughed, his retort coming out more bitter than he meant it to, “You’re sure I don’t look sick and exhausted?”

Bruce’s expression clouded and he started to climb from his seat, “Who said that? They have no business —”

“Bruce,” Peter grabbed his arm to stop him, or maybe just to give himself something to hold onto. “Please stay here. Just don’t worry about it.”

Bruce’s face softened as he settled again, “You look fine, Peter. I promise.”

Peter rocked his hand into his chin and stared at himself in the mirror, not knowing what he expected to see. The makeup made his skin look paler and his eyes darker, but nothing dramatic or brightly-coloured like he had seen at weddings before. His clothes and vest were black, lined with gold trim and too many buttons; Peter fidgeted and tugged at his cuffs and collar. Suddenly he understood why clothes at Arachnean weddings were loose, silken, and decorated with bright prints; if someone was going to be this nervous then the last thing they needed was to feel tied up by their own clothes.

Outside, someone shouted, “I won’t mess up his damn hair!” Bruce and Peter both turned to see Beck in the doorway, nose wrinkled in disgust.

He smiled at them and lowered his voice as he stepped inside, “I’m not saying Christine’s my least favourite person, but if she’d stayed in Ferrum I think we would all be better off.”

Bruce snorted and Peter stood up, smoothing his vest and ignoring how the world lurched around him, “Time to go?” His voice cracked.

Beck’s smile was reassuring, “Whenever _you’re_ ready,” he promised, “no one’s in a rush.”

Peter’s eyes lingered on the sword belted to Beck’s hip. “Is he so worried I’ll run,” Peter nodded to the weapon, “that I need a guard to escort me to the altar?”

Beck’s expression soured. Bruce said, “No one’s afraid you’ll run.”

Beck added, “You were really sick, Peter. I’m just making sure you get down there without collapsing.” Peter nodded, and then dimly he remembered that soldiers were supposed to wear their arms to weddings anyway. Weddings in Ferrum, that is.

Peter swallowed and looked around the room one more time, tucking Uncle Ben’s letter into his breast pocket. This wouldn’t be his room anymore; it would become an office or a guest suite. With the exception of the loft in the library, Peter had no place left to call his own, no place to let his guard down, to ease the tension strangling his heart.

But he had to leave. He had to go downstairs and stand steady at the altar, had to sign over his country. He had to go through with all of this, even if it felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, even if it felt like lightning was prickling along the back of his neck.

“Peter...” Peter blinked, staring at Beck’s offered arm.

“You just have to get through the next few hours,” Bruce said behind him and Peter nodded. So he took Beck’s arm and let the soldier lead him.

In his mind, Peter sealed the room the way it had been before all this. Before a dozen servants left it strewn with perfume and ribbons; before his own fever and nightmares left the bedsheets tangled; before there had ever been someone locking the door and standing beneath the window at night; Before anyone from Ferrum ever set foot in Arachne. When it had just been his room.

The happy home of a happy prince in a happy country.

If Peter could go nowhere else, then at the very least he would have the mental image of that room. If he was going to turn himself over body and soul, then at least he could remember the home of a Peter who had been _good_.

There were lush green gardens in the eastern castle grounds. Peter had spent some time there since the siege. It gave him a space to sit in the sun, and the plot where Aunt May had grown medicines was ideal for gathering ingredients for his poison. Now the thought of marrying Tony there made his head spin.

Beck kept a tight grip on Peter’s arm as they made their way outside. The hum of chatter and strumming of a lute made Peter stop dead in his tracks. Behind them, Bruce nearly ran into them.

This was just another thing that didn’t feel right; music was for _after_ the ceremony, they were meant to approach in silence, surrounded by morning birdsong. It was all to recognise the importance of harmony, of listening to one’s spouse.

 _Not in Ferrum,_ Peter reminded himself.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered, voice a bit breathless. It was terribly hot even this late in summer, and not for the first time Peter wished they had just done this in the cool light of sunrise. Instead it was late afternoon and these clothes were heavy and warm and the sun seemed to be lingering too long in the sky, as if reluctant to set because it wanted to stand as a witness to what Peter was about to do.

Beck tucked his head close to Peter’s ear. “Don’t apologise,” Beck murmured and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, “but you need to walk.” Peter nodded, and reached into his mind for the neat tower room in the castle. It was cooler in there, safer. Peter swallowed, and together they started to walk again.

There were white stone benches along either side of the aisle, assembled specifically for the wedding. Peter liked them, trying to make notes of the beautiful parts of the day. In addition to the bright hedges and shrubs in the garden, there were bouquets of white lilies everywhere. It was strange to walk in from the side instead of down the aisle, to have the full heat of the sun beating down on them, to see Tony entering at the same time.

Peter only vaguely recognised the man walking with Tony, one of his captains. General Rhodes was seated in the front row, Bruce peeled off to sit with him.

Tony wore a black coat and trousers with a red belted tunic which reached his knees; the entire outfit was lined with a heavy velvet Peter felt to be unreasonable given the heat. The king wore a half-cape over his right shoulder and a row of green and silver enamel pins accented his breast pocket. The very top button of his shirt was undone, Peter imagined Tony grunting and fussing while getting ready.

He wore a sword at his hip too, like many of the other men in attendance. _Does Ferrum’s army not employ women_? The thought buzzed around Peter’s head, an incessant and ultimately inane distraction. _Is that really important now_? He chided himself, and then had to stop from fidgeting or sighing or yanking his hand through his hair. _Just stay still; just stand, sign, and speak._

Stand. Sign. Speak.

Three actions. He could do that.

Beck pulled away from him. For a moment, anchor-less, Peter was certain he would collapse. Or maybe just float away. But then Tony’s hands were holding his. This felt better and worse at the same time.

The man presiding over the ceremony came down the centre aisle, one of Tony’s legal aides. He was someone Peter had met at the contract negotiation, someone Peter respected, but he couldn’t think of his name right now. His dark hair was very carefully parted on the left and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, at least not until he looked at Peter. Then he beamed, overly reassuring and far too earnest.

He looked to the king and his voice was low enough that the audience could not quite hear, “Ready, Your Highness?”

Tony nodded, not taking his eyes off of Peter, “Quite ready, Jarvis.”

“Good, good. And you, Prince Peter? Feeling well?” Peter couldn’t bring himself to speak so he just nodded, grateful that Jarvis bothered to ask even though it was all just a formality.

“Very well then.” Jarvis turned around to face the crowd and opened his arms in welcome, “Lords and ladies, good people of Ferrum and Arachne…”

Then things blurred together. Peter was glad someone was holding his hands, even if it _was_ Tony, because otherwise he would have moved too much, exposed just how nervous he was. He was aware of Jarvis speaking for a while, talking a lot about healing the scars of war, about the importance of strong diplomatic relations and the prudent decisions of two courageous leaders who loved their people.

They turned away from the crowd to sign several pages of documents. The prenuptial contract first, then the marriage license, then Jarvis and several other aides and generals needed to add their names as witnesses. Peter’s head buzzed as the scent of coagulated ink began to hover in the warm air. He rubbed the back of his neck, smeared a spot of ink on his skin, wondered how sweaty his hands must be when Tony took them again. But Tony just smiled at him and actually gave a light squeeze, as if trying to be reassuring.

Then the vows. Tony and Peter had each been thoroughly uninterested in writing their own vows, so they lifted from Arachnean tradition. But as Jarvis read out the promises, Peter started to wish they hadn’t done this. The Arachnean vows were solemn, sacred, _real_.

“I, Peter Benjamin Parker, take you Anthony Edward Stark, to be my husband. To have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, until we are parted by death.”

Peter’s head was swimming. He blamed the heat but he knew it was more than that; his mind was filling in all the pieces which would have made the words true: _to have and to hold — until I kill you… To love, cherish, and obey — before my betrayal… Until we are parted — by your death at my hand_. _Oh, God..._

Jarvis cleared his throat and Peter’s eyes snapped away, he had thus far kept his gaze fixed on Tony’s chest because it was easy. But now the last of the vows were stuck in his throat.

 _You have_ _to say it. You_ have _to._

Peter’s voice wavered, he blinked furiously so that the tears would not fall when he choked on his lie, “This is my solemn vow.”

He retreated back into that room in his mind. The room that belonged to Peter Crown Prince of Arachne, not Peter Prince Consort of Ferrum.

Even the metal ring was warm when Tony put it on his finger.

And then in a burst of sound, the cheer of the crowd and the sharp whine of music, Peter’s mind spiralled back to Earth. Tony’s hands were on his cheeks and he kissed Peter and —

Oh.

Peter didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Tony was neither cold nor aggressive; his kiss was gentle, warm, affectionate. He was just soft and his eyes crinkled kindly when he pulled away, hand trailing down to hold Peter’s and squeeze it yet again.

They walked down the aisle hand in hand, leading the procession inside. People were all around them in the banquet hall, congratulating them, shaking hands, some exchanging hugs. Peter tried to keep his smile pleasant and voice soft, but the heat seemed determined to chase them even inside the stone castle, even with the sun setting.

Peter didn’t know if it was part of Ferrumean tradition, but it seemed like none of the food had taken weather into consideration. As his suit grew warmer amongst so many people and under the flare of torches, Peter wondered why they were served course after course of hot meals. Not one morsel of cool fruit or fresh salad; everything was roasted, baked, and fried. Breaded fish, oil-soaked vegetables, stuffed duck with crispy skin, potatoes served ten different ways, every bite landed heavy and solid in Peter’s stomach. There must have been an order to the courses, but to Peter it felt arbitrary. All around him, people ate and laughed and leaned in close to one another, so he thought maybe he was the only one feeling so flushed.

At his side at the head of the table, Tony mostly ignored him. The king fussed over making sure General Rhodes was seated comfortably, then engaged in a dizzying political conversation that discussed so many ranks and titles that even Peter’s head spun.

At least, he _thought_ his head hurt this much from listening in, not the fact that even the desserts were thick cakes and baked puddings all drizzled with hot fudge. Usually, Peter couldn’t get enough of chocolate. But tonight he took only a couple cursory bites, swallowing several times to get the food down before gulping at his wine, which was the most refreshing thing they’d been served. He remembered fondly a chilled, creamy white custard they’d eaten at Ned and Betty’s engagement party, perfumed with vanilla and garnished with tart slices of orange.

This was all wrong. Peter sat back in his seat and lifted a trembling hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Eating at a wedding was unfamiliar enough, but eating _this_ food. Sitting next to _this_ man. It made Peter want to throw up every bite, made him want to just stand up and walk away. Away from these people, this food, this hall, away from this horrible suffocating _wrongness_.

Tony’s hand on Peter’s arm made him jump; the king’s eyes searched his and he — he seemed almost anxious. Or worried.

“Prince Peter,” Tony stood up, offering his other hand, “may I have this dance?”

 _The dance_.

Suddenly Peter wished he hadn’t eaten anything at all. But every eye was on them again, and Peter knew what he was supposed to do. He put his hand in Tony’s and stood, letting the king lead him to the centre of the hall. Peter tried unsuccessfully to swallow the ringing in his ears, the pitch so irritating he was certain it was going to drown out the music. Standing side-by-side, he felt distracted by the feeling of Tony’s wrist upright against his, a few feet of space between them.

_Stay calm. You know how to dance. You’ve done this before._

He _had_ done this before. In lessons with half a dozen tutors, and then with friends. He had even performed this very dance with Elizabeth, the girl who Peter had briefly entertained marrying.

 _“Nothing that has to happen soon, love,”_ May had reassured him, _“just questions to consider.”_

Peter had liked Elizabeth, but when her father betrayed several pacts with Arachne, Uncle Ben had to abandon the route of marriage.

They were halfway through the dance now. Peter could hear the music, could follow the beat, could step lithely around Tony’s movements, somewhere in the crowd he heard a fond sigh. This was working. No matter what had happened to his name today, what had happened to his country the past few months, what would happen to his body tonight — he needed to keep his mind alert, focused, ready.

Peter whirled outward, was dimly aware of other couples joining them. Technically, according to Tony, these would be family members. But with none to either name, it was instead other nobles and Ferrum’s military leaders.

Their dance ended in the middle of the dance floor, but when Peter stopped on a bow a few feet away from Tony, the king grabbed his arm and spun him closer. Caught off guard, Peter stumbled through the spin but Tony held him tight, and then they were pressed flush against each other, far closer than any couple had a right to be in public.

Peter panted, but everyone around them had ended in the same action. This must just be another difference, another change, another thing he hadn’t anticipated and didn’t fully understand.

“Are you alright?”

Peter nodded, feeling not only warm but now gasping for breath. With Tony’s grip so tight on his waist, it felt like spiders were crawling down his thighs and up his back. Suddenly Tony let go and stepped back, “You dance well, but that’s probably enough for now,” The king chuckled, “Bruce has me under strict orders to not let you over-extend yourself. Why don’t you go sit down?”

Peter nodded, relieved at the exit Bruce had the foresight to provide. He stepped off the dance floor, letting the other couples weave around him as he found his way back to his seat. He wasn’t entirely out of place, sitting out from the dancing, but Peter supposed it wasn’t very becoming of a groom to just sit by himself. He picked up his glass of wine and took a nervous sip, looking around for someone he knew.

Bruce was on the dance floor, blushing and stumbling through the steps with a young woman. General Rhodes was nowhere to be seen, and Peter started to wonder if he’d been in pain or needed assistance with something. Maybe he ought to —

“You feeling alright, Peter?”

Peter turned to Beck with a shrug, lifting his wine glass to his lips again.

“I was just worried about General Rhodes,” he said. “If he’s hurting, I might be able to —”

“You know, I think you’re allowed to take the day off from saving lives if it’s your wedding day,” Beck grinned and Peter flushed.

“No, I just meant —”

“The general’s fine. Tying up loose ends and all that,” Beck didn’t elaborate so Peter didn’t ask what that meant, no matter how curious he was. _Tying up loose ends_ , and on this particular night? Maybe something to do with the contracts; Peter couldn’t see Jarvis anywhere either.

_Every face I’ve sought out tonight has been someone from Ferrum._

_Pathetic._

Peter downed the rest of his wine but when his head tipped back he wavered, stumbling back half a step before Beck reached out to grab his shoulder.

“Whoa, easy there,” Beck’s laugh and smile were soft. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

Peter didn’t answer. He just looked across the hall at Tony. “I don’t know if I can —”

“Ah, leave that to me,” and Beck turned Peter around, guiding him with a hand on his shoulder. Halfway to the door, Beck stepped away to approach the king, waving him away from a dance and gesturing to Peter. Peter fiddled with his sleeves and averted his gaze, staring at a painting on the wall. He tried to look interested in the snow-laden mountains, so that no one would try to talk to him.

“Alright, let’s step out a few minutes.” Peter let Beck lead him to the door, failing to cover his own surprise.

“He said yes?”

Beck hummed, “You should get sick more often. ‘The kid might pass out,’ lets us get away with anything,” He grinned, but Peter’s stomach twisted at the words, at the frailty implied in _the kid might pass out_.

Still, Beck might not have been that far off. As soon as they stepped outside, Peter gasped in a breath of cool, damp air. The temperature had dropped considerably and a misty rain hung around them, Peter choked on the sudden crispness in his lungs and very nearly sobbed at the raw relief of it all. Of being out of the light, out of the heat, away from all of those eyes and Tony’s commanding touch.

Beck laughed, “Feeling better?”

Peter took in two deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, dredging up a faint memory of Ben leading him through breathing exercises as a child. He’d been very young then, around when his parents…

“Can you tell what colour it is?” Peter opened his eyes and looked up, but they had very little light to see by.

“One second,” Beck said and Peter heard the door creak as he went back inside. Beck emerged with a torch in hand, the rain not quite heavy enough to dash the flames. Together they stared at the light, Peter held his hand out palm up and smiled at the shimmering splash of dark green.

Peter’s voice croaked a bit, “Bruce said that, in Ferrum, you learned red rain burns and blue freezes. What about green rain?”

Beck laughed and started to follow Peter further onto the castle grounds. In the flickering torchlight, the green looked like a gemstone, with all the allure and glint of an emerald.

“Green was supposed to whip the plants into a frenzy, bury you in vines and roots and sap.” Peter laughed aloud and Beck smirked, “I guess we all realised by the third rain here, how silly those stories were… How they didn’t make sense to begin with.”

Peter nodded and strolled to a stop when they reached the site of the wedding ceremony. The benches were splattered with the green rain, and Peter bent down to pick one of the lilies, now discoloured on the top of its petals. He rubbed the velvet tip of the flower before reaching for another.

“Something important about the flowers?” Beck asked, shifting on his feet as the rain and the temperature began to leave them with a chill. Peter still found it a relief compared to the suffocating heat inside.

“It’s just a wedding tradition in Arachne,” Peter shrugged, “if it rains, people assemble bouquets and give them to…” Peter trailed off, suddenly not knowing why he was bothering to collect these flowers. Why he marvelled at the patterns of the coloured splash on the petals, why he stared at the way the hue changed depending on how much had been exposed to the rain.

“It’s for the king?” Beck prompted.

Peter turned over one of the stems in his hand, shrugging and turning his face away from the torchlight. Above them, thunder rolled across the sky and a flash of lightning arced.

“It’s supposed to be for someone you love,” Peter said, “And I don’t…”

“I know you don’t _love_ him, but sometimes even the happiest marriages begin that way.” Beck crossed to sit on one of the benches, not reacting even though it was probably slippery and cold. Peter stood a few feet away, thinking over which flower to pick up next. In the silence, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

Finally, Beck asked, “Is it all that bad? You’ve married a king. You’ve saved your country. You could at least… pretend. I mean, that looks like something romantic, something beautiful… right?”

Peter sighed, wiping the moisture from his hair and glancing up at the sky. The next few sheets of rain came harder, with thick _plunking_ droplets that ran into Peter’s mouth. He walked slowly toward Beck and sat next to him on the bench, staring at the fading torch.

“I don’t want something that… _looks_ a certain way.” Peter said eventually, “I don’t want the _appearance_ of love or happiness, I don’t want a… a-a _show_ of anything. I want to love someone, and I want someone else to love me.”

Beck’s hand went to Peter’s forearm, squeezing lightly, “You deserve that. You deserve to be married to someone who wants you, who recognises… how good you are. You’re faithful to your country...” Peter looked up at him, at blue eyes as turbulent as the storm over their heads. Beck hesitated before he spoke again, “You’re really brave, Peter.”

Then he shifted away. Beck let go of Peter’s arm and moved his weight further along the bench.

Peter turned over the flowers in his hand, so the rain would cover as many of the petals as possible. He started to speak and lift the flowers in Beck’s direction.

Then the torch went out.

Peter’s hand opened and he let the flowers fall to the ground, the sound drowned out in the rain and the sight obscured in the sudden darkness.

Beck laughed, “I guess that’s our cue,” and Peter heard him stand up. He carefully climbed to his feet, grabbing the back of Beck’s shirt as a guide as they lurched back to the castle.

Inside, they paused in the hallway, laughing and rubbing their eyes in the sudden light. Peter tugged his vest off to wring it out while Beck shook the water from his hair. Tony was waiting for them just inside the door of the banquet hall, the crowd had thinned now to quiet conversations and a few stray couples caught in informal dance steps.

“Welcome back,” Tony smiled at them, looking Peter up and down. He looked _amused_ as he tucked his hand against the small of Peter’s back and pulled him close to his side. “You’re all wet,” he didn’t sound very angry about it, more like he was making an observation. “Suppose we turn in for the night? Get you dried off and warmed up before you catch a cold?”

 _Dried off and warmed up_.

Despite the heat of Tony’s grip, a lance of cold pierced Peter’s stomach and ran a line straight to his throat. A heady feeling buzzed in his head and he started to say, “Perhaps we could stay —” But Beck was nodding to bid them both goodnight, and Tony turned him back toward the hallway.

The ringing in Peter’s ears was back. He scrambled to grab hold of his old room in his mind, even as Tony took him on all the wrong turns and up the wrong flight of stairs. _Oh God_ , he wasn’t just sharing a bed with Tony tonight — he was sharing his _aunt and uncle’s bed_. He was about to step into their suite for the first time since Aunt May passed; Peter didn’t even know if anything looked the same.

Peter’s feet lurched and he stumbled. Tony stopped and steadied him, keeping one hand on Peter’s back and the other on his arm. “Almost there, I know it’s late.” Tony murmured, he sounded almost apologetic. Peter couldn’t bring himself to look at anything in the solar, to turn his eyes toward Aunt May’s still room or Uncle Ben’s bookshelves or his mother’s journals or the hearth where his father used to sit and sketch, what if it was all different now?

So Peter kept his eyes on the floor as Tony steered him, through the suite’s front door and to the bedroom on the left.

“Dry yourself off before you get in bed,” the king said, and then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Peter cast a cautious eye around the bedroom, which looked mostly the same. The furniture hadn’t changed, nor the bedspread or many of the decorations, but there were little things; the clothes in the closet were different, the possessions on top of the dresser weren’t Uncle Ben’s, the books were not the same ones Aunt May would have read. All changes that Peter expected; he understood them, they made sense, but it didn’t make swallowing the reality any easier.

Peter dried off and changed as quickly as he could, not knowing how long Tony would be. He didn’t want to risk frustrating or angering the king tonight.

Dressed in soft linen pants and a shirt, Peter sat on the edge of the bed and waited. He folded his hands in his lap, rubbed at a green spot on the back of his hand. He crossed his legs and waited for a while, then crossed them the other way.

He yawned, feeling weighed down by the heat of the day, the heaviness of the meal they’d eaten, and the wine he’d drunk. Tony had said _dry yourself off before you get in bed_ , so maybe it was okay to lie down. Uncertainly, Peter laid on his back and wrapped the blanket around himself, scratching where the green spot had been.

 _The blanket will get in the way_.

Peter kicked off the blanket and shifted onto his side, he could feel his own heartbeat like this, thrumming through the pillow. He yawned again, felt a roll of skin wearing away under his finger as he anxiously rubbed the back of his hand.

Maybe if he was on his stomach, then things would be easy for Tony and Peter wouldn’t have to look at the man. So Peter rolled, threw both of his arms under the pillow and pressed his face into it.

Peter was nearly asleep when the door opened. He jolted awake, half-lifting his head but then freezing in place. All of his limbs locked and he swallowed a weak, strangled sound in the back of his throat.

He listened to Tony moving around, blowing out the lantern to engulf them in darkness.

The bed dipped and Peter willed the tightness in his stomach to uncoil, he could absolutely not get sick _in the wedding bed_.

Peter waited, eyes scrunched tight, for Tony’s hand on his shoulder or back, or maybe to go immediately between his legs. Would Tony be gentle, would he know that Peter was nervous, would he at least recognise how sick he’d been recently?

Feather-light, Tony’s fingertips brushed Peter’s forehead. Peter scrunched the sheets in his hand, carefully repeating the breathing exercise from Uncle Ben. It was supposed to help with pain, right?

The bed shifted again. And a few minutes later, Tony’s snore made Peter nearly leap out of his skin.

Tony’s snore.

Tony was _snoring_.

He was asleep.

Peter rolled onto his back, wiping the traces of tears from the corner of his eyes. He let out a very small gasp of relief, reaching to rub again at his hand.

What did this mean? Was Tony drunk? Was he going to wake up in the middle of the night ready? Or was something wrong with Peter? Had he done something terrible in leaving with Beck for part of the evening? In retrospect, that entire conversation, sitting in the rain with the flowers, had been horribly inappropriate.

Peter didn’t sleep. Every time Tony shifted, he jumped. He stayed as still as possible on his back, not daring to move to a more comfortable position lest it wake his —

His _husband_.

 _His_ husband.

Peter swallowed the grief bubbling in his throat. He stayed awake until dawn, blinking at the ceiling. By morning he had rubbed the sore on his hand until it was an open wound, the skin broken, red, and raw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formal apologies! Informal apologies! A million apologies! I'm so sorry for such a long delay (weeks! It took weeks to post Ch. 10!)  
> The good news is:
> 
> 1\. We're going to start an actual, sensible posting schedule. Check back on Thursdays for a new update to this fic :)  
> 2\. Whoops we're back to /? chapters. A safe bet is still 20 - 25.  
> 3\. I love you all so much. I'm very sorry for the delay, something came up irl a couple days after posting Ch. 9 that threw me off not just in terms of productivity but also self-confidence, etc. But if you're still out there, thanks for coming back! You all mean the world to me!
> 
> As always, thank you to my wonderful endlessly-patient betareader Silver Lurker.
> 
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	11. Fine Print

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old wound opens up again, and Peter must defend someone he ought to hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 Warnings: Background mention of sexual assault and other violent crimes and punishments (non-graphic,) anxiety, and a bit of excoriation still

“The defendant is found guilty and is sentenced to serve fifteen years of physical labour.”

Peter swallowed but didn’t lift his eyes when the young woman broke into tears. She kept her weeping quiet as she was led from the room. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what.

Peter scratched out yet another pointless note on the paper he’d been provided. He rubbed his thumb over the rough brown scab on his right hand, his eyes flicked to the door where Beck stood; he gave Peter a reassuring smile and warmth crept onto the boy’s cheeks. Then Peter’s thoughts clouded again as he turned away, stifling a yawn.

Three days since the wedding, and Peter could count on one hand the number of hours he’d slept. Tony hadn’t touched him since brushing his forehead on their wedding night, but Peter wasn’t going to be the one to _remind_ the king of consummation by asking about it. The result was an unbearable limbo; Peter spent his nights lying as still as possible, heart skipping a beat every time Tony shifted in his sleep. Sometimes he nodded off a bit, but then jerked awake with his pulse racing and his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

The problem was, the longer Peter went without sleep, the less he was able to come up with a logical explanation for Tony’s behaviour. He supposed, at this point, that the king must be so busy and tired at the end of the day that making love, or the empty physical equivalent, was the last thing on his mind.

The morning after the wedding, Tony had told Peter over breakfast that the court of law was resuming. He asked if Peter wanted to join him in overseeing procedures.

“Do you always monitor each court case?” Peter had asked, feeling a reluctant seed of respect for the king.

“Many of them. And it’s certainly more important now with all the new stipulations we’ve agreed to,” Tony sniffed, sitting back in his chair. A wry smile spread across his lips, “I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m a _bad king_ now, would I?”

Peter didn’t understand this last comment, but saying it had put a big smile on Tony’s face.

Peter _did_ agree that they should both be present. So they’d spent almost every waking moment of the past three days slogging through a backlog of court cases.

Edwin Jarvis served as judge for nearly every case they went through, for which Peter was grateful. Even as a man from Ferrum, Jarvis had apprised himself of the nuances of Arachnean law and was determined to treat every case evenly. He was competent, level-headed, and courteous to everyone. Every person who stepped into the courtroom was treated fairly as far as Peter could see, whether an Arachnean peasant or a Ferrumean soldier.

Of course, there was a difference between fairness and justice. This was where Peter found himself feeling ill from more than sleep deprivation; Ferrumean punishments tended to be incredibly harsh.

There was the girl sentenced to fifteen years of labour for theft; a young man sentenced to thirty lashes for prostitution; a Ferrumean soldier sentenced to hang for raping an Arachnean girl and killing her father.

Peter understood the importance of any form of law, but pain to this scale wasn’t going to help anyone heal from wrongdoing. It wasn’t going to return the stolen item, stop the boy from selling his body again, or repair a shattered family. The girl, for example, had only resorted to theft after her fiancé, one of _Tony’s_ soldiers, died in battle, leaving her without provision.

Peter rubbed his eyes; he had discussed things like this with Uncle Ben before… But now he couldn’t come up with any of the words or philosophies exchanged.

_Fairness and justice…_

Was it something about justice and the law being a dichotomy… or…

Peter muttered under his breath and his eyes slid to Tony, sitting just a few seats down from him. The king had kept a neutral expression on his impeccably groomed face the past few days. He nodded along, offered comment if needed, but for the most part just leaned on his elbows, fingers laced together, and watched the proceedings.

Tony must have felt the weight of Peter’s gaze because he turned his head slightly to look at him. Peter shifted away, his limbs and mind felt sluggish. He _needed_ to sleep soon. He had tried to go to Aunt May’s still room last night, hoping to find the tea blend she used to make for him, but the room had been locked.

What was Peter supposed to do? Ask his _husband_ for the key? Not happening.

Peter held in a sigh when Jarvis called for the next defendant to be brought in. The majority of these cases involved people from Ferrum, Peter wished they had the same avenues afforded to them as Arachneans. He and Tony had agreed to keep court customs distinct for Ferrumean and Arachnean criminals for the first few months of their marriage.

Since Peter could remember, apparently since his grandfather’s reign, Arachnean citizens were allowed to settle certain disputes individually. A defendant and victim could meet privately with witnesses and a mediator to come to terms; no need for court, no overzealous punishments.

Peter reached for the spot on the back of his hand again, peeling away a tiny piece of the scab. Red bubbled up and began to bead and slide over the side of his hand.

Peter reached inside his vest pocket for a handkerchief. He turned his head back to the courtroom door when the next defendant entered and —

The fog in his mind evaporated.

Peter sat up straight and was immediately conscious that Tony’s eyes were on him again, gauging his reaction.

Bradley looked terrified and he was chewing his bottom lip, eyes darting all around as he was led to the centre of the room. Chains clinked on his wrists; he looked filthy and disheveled.

_He’s here for something else_ , Peter thought, even though his rapidly beating heart said otherwise, _no one_ knows _, we said he was dead_ , _he —_

“Bradley Davis, charged with aggravated assault and treasonous insult to Ferrum’s Prince Consort Peter Parker.” As soon as Jarvis finished reading the charge, he mumbled something. Not loud enough anyone for anyone to hear, but an aside indicative of his own surprise.

Peter’s head swivelled to look at Tony, but he was staring straight ahead, tapping his quill against parchment. Peter looked to the rows of benches behind Brad, searching for Beck by the door.

Beck’s mouth was slightly parted and his eyes were wide, blinking and blinking like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing; Peter couldn’t really believe it, either.

“Prince Peter?” Jarvis’ voice drew him back to the room. Peter realised then that everyone was staring at him; he was breathing _loudly_ , almost gasping.

Peter swallowed and quickly apologised, “I’m fine, please don’t worry. But could we take a recess before we begin?” His jaw snapped shut and he forced himself to breathe through his nose.

Jarvis looked at Tony, who lifted a hand to cover his mouth.

“Of course, fifteen minutes?” The king offered. As soon as Jarvis nodded, Peter nearly toppled his chair in his haste to stand, indignation flaring at the smirk Tony was hiding. Tony was _laughing_ at him. He had _planned_ this. He —

Peter took quick steps out of the courtroom, ignoring the eyes which trailed after him.

_You need to calm down_ , he ordered himself, _you are not a child anymore_. _You can’t just sit in there daydreaming and trusting Uncle Ben to get everything right. You need to protect Brad._

_Protect Brad… fifteen minutes_.

Peter swayed and started when he felt a hand on his elbow, whirling around.

“Peter?” Beck pulled his hand back, “I didn’t mean to scare you —”

“ _What_ is he doing in there?” Peter hissed, making a sharp gesture to the door. A few other people were filtering out, some glanced their way. Peter shifted so they were facing the wall more, “Did you _tell_ him?”

“What? Of course not!” Beck whispered, “I don’t know what he’s doing here, I was as surprised as you —”

“We said you _killed_ him, Beck! There is no reason for the king to have known —”

“Peter, breathe.” Beck’s hand on his shoulder made Peter realise his entire body was vibrating, voice cracking repeatedly as he blustered on. Beck’s expression softened and he lowered his voice even more, “What about when you were sick? You were really out of it, and the king kept coming to see you… Maybe you said something you shouldn’t— I mean, maybe something slipped out during those visits?”

Peter swallowed, casting his mind back to his days in bed, but they were as much of a blur now as when he’d first woken up. Aside from collapsing in the library and waking up with Bruce in his room, he couldn’t recall anything else. Bruce said he’d slept a lot, had a terrible fever, and hadn’t recognised anyone.

Had Peter told Tony that Bradley was alive and well? Was this _his_ fault?

Peter exhaled slowly, pulling his shoulder from Beck’s grip and stretching his arms. If this was his fault, then it was even more imperative that he fix it.

“Peter,” Beck murmured, “I have to testify as a witness. I don’t know what good it would do but…” He got even quieter, moving so his breath ghosted against Peter’s ear, “Do you want me to lie?”

Peter shook his head, “No.” He said without hesitating, “No, you can’t commit perjury. Everything that happens in that room must be based in truth.”

“Okay,” Beck nodded, smiling very gently. His eyes practically _glowed_ looking at Peter, despite the mistakes he’d made. “That’s very honourable, Peter. Just know that, if you wanted me to —”

“Beck!” Beck winced when Peter grabbed his arm with both hands, pulling it urgently, “Beck, wait, you _can’t_ lie today. Promise me!” There was half a plan forming in Peter’s head; a plan that, depending on Tony’s pride, might not work at all. But it was the only thing Peter’s addled brain could think of in the absence of time and sleep. “Beck, promise me you won’t lie! Every single thing you say in there must be true!”

“O-okay,” Beck nodded quickly, “I promise. I won’t — Peter?”

“I’ll be right back!” Peter called, hurrying down the hall. He went straight to the suite he shared with Tony, his tired mind struggling to rehearse a few phrases and keep up with the cluttered ideas he was forming. Peter didn’t know what the punishment would be for what Brad had done. But the past few days had given him the clear impression that if it didn’t kill Brad it would leave him severely injured, or else derail the rest of his life.

Peter found the grey knit sweater in the bottom of a chest, tucked with other items that were old or fraying. He stood up and resisted the impulse to run back to the courtroom, instead keeping his pace even and expression in check.

Beck was still waiting outside when he returned.

“Peter,” Beck reached out almost like he wanted to steady him, “Are you okay? I don’t want you to —”

“I’m fine,” Peter nodded quickly. He folded the sweater, rubbing the soft material between his fingers. “Just, _please_. I don’t care if you need to stop and think, I need every word in there to be honest.”

Beck nodded earnestly, “I swear it.” He said. For a moment, Beck’s hand lingered on Peter’s arm and Peter blinked up into pale blue eyes, feeling some of the weight in his mind dissipate.

Then Peter turned on his heel to step back inside.

Almost everyone was where Peter had left them, with the exception of Brad, who was seated in one of the benches at the front, leg shaking as he stared at his hands. Peter scanned a few new faces who had joined the room, stopping short when he saw Betty and Mrs. Brant.

_Witnesses, right_. Peter gave a small wave while he walked around the edge of the room and back to his seat. He kept his eyes pointedly off of Tony and nodded curtly when Jarvis asked if everyone was ready to proceed.

Much as Peter wanted the time to crack open law books and double-check the contracts he and Tony had signed, he forced himself to sit still and listen to half a dozen voices swear to testify honestly before telling the story of what happened in the bakery.

Peter thought it must be terribly nerve-wracking, to stand in the centre of a semicircle of tables with rows of spectators behind you, everyone else seated and watching. And the speaker had to face Jarvis, Tony, Peter, and a dozen clerks and advisors, who all sat taking notes and murmuring to one another.

Three Arachnean citizens started with broad testimonies; two onlookers from the crowd and one of the boys who had been with Brad.

At Beck’s turn, he spoke with confidence, his story detailed, voice genuine and measured. He described running outside and pulling Brad back in the middle of a second kick, grabbing his shirt and throwing him on the ground.

“I helped Prince Peter to his feet and returned him to the castle,”

“You did not use any other means of force on the defendant that day?”

“No, I only removed him from physical contact with Prince Peter.”

“Did you harm any other citizen of Arachne during the incident?”

Beck hesitated, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. The tension in the air grew palpable.

Finally he said with an apologetic smile, “If the court will forgive my memory. It’s possible I pushed members of the crowd out of the way while escorting the prince to the castle. If I harmed anyone, it was entirely unintentional.”

The room seemed to let out a breath and Peter smiled. The admission of such a benign detail during an otherwise violent story left Beck endeared as _painfully_ honest, unnecessarily so.

Beck made eye contact with Peter, who nodded slightly.

Mrs. Brant didn’t have much to add, except for admitting to calling Beck’s attention from the prince and then hurrying out when her daughter shouted for them. She identified the boys who had been with Brad that day; Jarvis broadly stated they would need to be addressed ‘at a later date’.

Then Betty stood up to give her witness account. Betty looked as tired as Peter felt, her complexion wan and eyes a bit unfocused. She was wearing a pretty green dress that Peter thought she must have borrowed from her mother because it was too big for her.

Betty described the boys entering the bakery and stuttered over the assault. She blushed and wrung her hands on the word _whore_ and kept looking at the wall just over Jarvis’ head. Her account of the physical assault was vague (“He hit the prince a couple times and pushed him outside”) but Jarvis seemed reluctant to push her, which Peter was grateful for.

Then Jarvis asked, “Aside from the accusation of indecent acts, did the defendant make any other claims to the character of Prince Peter or another member of the royal family?”

“W-well, he referred to King Anthony as a murderer…”

Two gasps echoed from different parts of the room; Brad doubled over in his seat, sinking his head into his hands. Betty trailed off with a bit of a shudder, gaze fluttering nervously to Tony.

Peter’s nose scrunched. This detail, the accusation against Tony instead of Peter, might prove to be an issue.

But he gave Betty a reassuring nod when he realised she was staring at him, an apology scrawled in her gaze. He didn’t _want_ her to lie, not even by omission.

_Lies can be spoken or unspoken,_ Uncle Ben used to say that.

“Miss Brant, I’m sure you understand this is a rather serious revelation. Do you recall the comment exactly?”

“Ohh,” Betty sighed and shut her eyes, “I don’t know if I could repeat it,” but she swallowed and steeled herself. Peter sat up a bit straighter, mind racing. If Betty collapsed, they might have reason to throw out her testimony, perhaps write it off as confused by fever and illness. But all the same, Peter’s stomach twisted at the thought of putting his friend through any such thing.

Peter cleared his throat, “If I may, Sir?” Every eye in the room turned to him.

Peter kept his voice steady when he turned to face Brad, “The defendant said: ‘You sucked that murderer’s dick to save your own skin.’” He remembered the accusation easily, had heard it in his dreams nearly every night since.

A whisper fluttered through the courtroom but Peter couldn’t make it out.

“Miss Brant, can you corroborate this?”

Betty nodded, one hand covering her mouth.

Jarvis’ tongue clicked while he wrote something down, “I see. Miss Brant, you may sit down. Prince Peter, I suppose this is as good a time as any to transition to your own testimony.”

Peter was already standing when they turned to him, smoothing out his tunic and willing the buzzing in his brain to calm. He walked around the tables to stand where everyone else had, causing another stir.

“Prince Peter, you’re permitted to stay sea—”

“Sir, should I not testify under the same conditions as everyone else?”

Jarvis shrugged and held his hand out in invitation for Peter to continue. Peter paused to swear in, binding himself to the truth. Then he stood in the centre of the room, wishing the floor would stop undulating beneath him. He twisted the fabric of the sweater in one hand and began to wish he had just left it on the table.

For just a moment, standing in the middle of a chilly stone room with too many eyes on him, a wave of exhaustion slammed into Peter. He blinked ferociously and, under the sweater, dug his nail into the sore on his hand. The pain sent a single shock up his arm and his mind cleared.

“Sir, I could tell the court my own memory of the altercation at Mrs. Brant’s bakery. However, I would instead like to move for a mistrial.”

Tony’s composure broke.

“Denied!” The king snapped, his voice low and eyes dark as he glowered at Peter.

Jarvis turned to Tony, “Your Grace, _may_ I remind you there is a procedure to follow here.” Peter and Tony continued to glare at one another as Jarvis asked, “Prince Peter, do you mean to deny the altercation occurred…?” He trailed off instead of really asking, as if indicating Peter should _know_ it would be futile with so many eyewitness accounts.

“No,” Peter shook his head, “My grounds for mistrial are that my prenuptial contract with the king specifies that for the first five months after we’re wed, Arachnean citizens are to be tried by Arachnean custom of law and Ferrumean citizens are to be tried by Ferrumean custom of law. According to —”

“I know the clause, Prince Peter,” Jarvis answered tiredly, he sounded almost apologetic as he added, “but as a crime committed against _Ferrum’s_ Prince Consort, this is —”

“I was not Prince Consort of Ferrum at the time,” Peter interjected, his heart climbing into his throat. He finally managed to tear his eyes away from Tony, who looked ready to wring his neck. He turned his gaze back to Jarvis, swiping his thumb over the scab on his hand over and over again. “Bradley Davis, a citizen of Arachne, attacked the Prince of _Arachne_ , I have every right to not press charges for assault in this court —”

“Jarvis,” Tony cut Peter off, making Peter turn to face him. Someone in the courtroom started murmuring, apparently participation from the king himself needed to be noted immediately. “Prince Peter is conveniently forgetting that at the time of the assault—”

“I’m forgetting nothing. I was _not_ yet a member of Ferrum’s royal family —”

“He had agreed to the contract discussed —”

“The contract was still under review —”

“— Agreed to marry me, to enter _into_ my family —”

“Nothing had been signed —”

“So you admit your own word to be worthless?”

“ENOUGH!”

Jarvis’ shout made Peter jump and turn himself fully away from Tony again. The king was standing now, leaning across the table to stare Peter down.

Peter hooked his nail in the wound on his hand and ripped off the remainder of the scab. If Tony was going to be stubborn, so be it. “If Bradley Davis is tried for assaulting me as the Prince Consort of Ferrum, then I insist on pressing charges for another assault which occurred that same day.”

In the ensuing silence, all Peter could feel was the thump of his heart in his throat. No one was whispering or gossiping now, everyone stared at Peter. He forced his face to remain blank, chin high, gaze steady.

Jarvis’ brow furrowed, “Somebody _else_ assaulted you on the same day in question?”

“Yes. That same afternoon, I was struck on the left temple by a second assailant’s fist, my head hit a desk as I was knocked to the floor. I was then pulled to my feet and thrown against a stone wall which I struck my head on _again_. The sweater I wore, the one I’m holding here, was torn in two places as a result of this assault.”

Peter paused for a breath before adding.

“Quentin Beck saw the whole thing.”

Every head in the courtroom turned, many twisting at the waist or adjusting themselves in their seats, to more fully face the soldier. Beck was sitting next to Betty with wide eyes, looking like _he_ was the one who’d been struck.

Jarvis prompted: “Sir Quentin, did you witness this?”

“I — Yes,” Beck blurted out, his gaze flicked to Tony then back to Peter. Then his expression smoothed and he smiled sheepishly, “I realise it’s a poor reflection on my ability to protect the prince,” his eyes were gentle when they met Peter’s.

“Prince Peter, are you prepared to name your second assailant?”

“I am,” Peter didn’t risk looking at the king, his stomach churning, “unless I am afforded the opportunity to resolve _this_ dispute as a citizen of Arachne.”

The next few seconds seemed to last a very long time. Peter counted; it was only four heartbeats which roared between his ears, but it still felt like hours.

The issue was, Tony couldn’t _really_ get into trouble for this, at least not to the same extent as Bradley. A domestic disturbance between king and fiancé was different than a citizen attacking his prince. But the similarity of the crimes, the way Peter had described them, would still leave the courtroom. Would still filter through the castle and into the city. Could Tony afford such public outrage, maybe even a riot, right now?

Before Jarvis could speak, Tony cleared his throat, “I think the least we can do today is extend some compassion to my husband’s tender heart,” Tony’s lips twisted into a sneer, the insult reclaiming the power of the room. But that didn’t matter; at the end of the day, Peter had still won.

Tony continued, “The royal family of Ferrum calls for a mistrial. Bradley Davis should be charged with assaulting the Prince of Arachne, _not_ the Prince Consort of Ferrum.”

Jarvis hummed but he was smirking the slightest bit as he looked at the king, “And the defendant's defamation of yourself, Your Grace?”

Tony waved his hand, “All within a few days of our men entering the city. Why, I recall my own husband called me a murderer too. The comment can be set aside, provided _everyone_ knows their place now.”

Peter nearly fainted.

But he shifted on his feet and dug his nail into the cut on his hand again.

“Prince Peter, I assume this is suitable?”

“Yes,” Peter said almost breathlessly, “Yes.”

“Then I declare a mistrial. Bradley Davis’ trial will be rescheduled —”

“According to Arachnean law, I can choose to meet privately with Mr. Davis and an adjudicator to come to agreeable terms —”

“Fine, yes, very well, Prince Peter. Arrange the meeting within the week.” Jarvis was all business again, focused on nothing more than finishing the paperwork and moving everyone along, “Mr. Davis, you are permitted to return home for the time being.”

Peter turned to face his friends; Betty’s entire face was alight with her grin, she was _glowing_. Mrs. Brant met Peter’s gaze and nodded to him very slightly, the curve of a smile on her lips. Beck helped another soldier unlock the shackles around Brad’s wrists, and Brad —

Brad turned his gaze to Peter, lips parted and eyes swimming in tears. He looked like he wanted to say something, but they were a bit too far apart.

Peter’s ears rang while he signed a half dozen forms, barely taking in the buzz of conversation around him. Still, he smiled when Jarvis made a wry joke about missing trial by combat.

“Thank you Prince Peter, you’re dismis—”

“Thank you!” Peter choked out and all but threw the quill back to Jarvis, lurching from the courtroom and into the hallway.

Peter managed to get around the corner and halfway down the next hall before he stumbled, dropped his sweater, and had to reach for the wall. His shaking legs barely kept him upright.

A strangled sob started to slip out of his throat and Peter turned, biting down hard on the knuckles of his free hand. An indecent, high-pitched wail choked him and he wiped at the tears which came in _streams_ , rolling off his chin and hitting the ground.

The exhaustion was back in full force now, a line of blood had trickled from the back of his hand and down his wrist, his own fingerprint leaving it smudged. His chest heaved on another sob and he gasped, his entire body shaking. He couldn’t _breathe_ like this.

_One… two… three…_

Peter took in a deep breath, counting to five. He held the air in a moment before breathing out.

_… Six… seven._

_One… two…_

Halfway through his third breath, Peter turned and bent over to pick the sweater up. He wiped his face with one hand and pulled at his shirt to smooth it out. He lifted a hand to run through his hair and turned back in the direction of the courtroom.

Tony stood at the end of the hall, watching him.

Peter swallowed twice in the time it took to reach the king. To Peter’s surprise, Tony didn’t look _angry_. His brow was furrowed and he turned his head back toward the courtroom, he seemed…

_Bewildered_.

Peter stopped in front of him; Tony lifted his hand, but when Peter flinched away the king swallowed and quickly clasped both palms together.

“That was…” Tony swallowed, his voice was unusually soft, “I had no idea you were as well-versed in law as you are in medicine.” Then he laughed, “But I suppose you have _nothing to prove to me,_ right?”

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. He had expected Tony to hit him. Certainly to berate and mock him. This was… disorienting.

Tony smiled and shook his head, “I just don’t get it. I mean,” he made a vague motion back toward the courtroom, “He _humiliated_ and _insulted_ you. He _hurt_ you. Why… why would you just let that happen, let him get away with it?”

Peter’s jaw clenched tightly. He hated how Tony’s voice sounded, how the king seemed so innocently curious. He tried to keep his voice cold, but it still shook a little when he answered, “You of all people, have _no right_ to ask me that.”

He didn’t wait for the king to answer. He just added, voice tearing at the seams, “Finish the rest of today without me, please, I’m going to the library.”

Then he walked past Tony, tears smarting in the corners of his eyes.

In the library, Peter climbed to the loft and curled up on his mother’s bench, knees up to his chin. He clasped his hands over his legs and turned his head to stare outside. He didn’t reach for his papers and books, he just sat there.

He thought of the chains on Brad’s wrists; thought of the girl sentenced to labour, the boy to be flogged, the soldier to be hanged. He didn’t even _need_ to know what Brad’s punishment would have been.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut tight and shivered. Tony had been reserved in the hallway, perhaps had thought the space was too public for confrontation. But Peter was sure the king would take this out on him tonight, behind closed doors.

Peter sighed. Maybe a beating, a little physical distress, would be exactly what his body needed to force itself to sleep.

He could only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean no one asked for a courtroom drama? 😄 Okay, okay fine it was a bit weird. I turned the genre on its head a little bit here, but it was really fun to write! I sincerely hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Wondering about Tony's reactions here? We'll see his perspective again in Chapter 12, so hang tight 😉 As always, thanks to Silver Lurker for beta reading.  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	12. Rye Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony isn't the only one impressed by Peter's performance in court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12 Warnings: Nothing... I think? Alcohol consumption, some background mention of war/character death, let me know if anything else jumps out at you!

“If Bradley Davis is tried for assaulting me as the Prince Consort of Ferrum, then I insist on pressing charges for another assault which occurred that same day.”

Tony’s lip curled in frustration. _What_ was this kid getting at? Obviously Peter would want Davis punished for attacking him and spitting such venom — Tony himself had half a mind to order that foul tongue cut out — so what was the point of trying to defend him? Maybe to try and combine trials with this second assault? Was Peter trying to be efficient with resources?

Tony knew by now that the kid wasn’t just being an idiot. The boy had his reasons for seeking the mistrial, just as he had reasons for keeping this second assault a secret — _oh, they were going to talk_ _about_ that _,_ _but first_ —

“That same afternoon, I was struck on the left temple by a second assailant’s fist, my head hit a desk as I was knocked to the floor. I was then pulled to my feet and thrown against…”

When Tony was growing up, he and other apprentices were sometimes forced to work for nights on end in order to meet quotas for the smithy. Due to the nature of their work, falling asleep came with a risk of accidental burns or maiming. But, if they were lucky, they collapsed safely. Then Raza, their overseer, would drag them to a bucket of water and hold their head under until they thrashed awake, coughing and spluttering and grateful to be alive.

Now, listening to Peter recount the story of this second assault, Tony felt for the first time in years like he was being dunked in cold water again. Like someone’s hand was on the back of his neck and he had just been submerged and shocked awake.

This second assault, the blows to the head, hitting the desk, being flung against the wall and striking his head... Peter was describing their meeting in his office.

“Prince Peter, are you prepared to name your second assailant?”

“I am,”

Peter was prepared to name _him_.

“Unless I am afforded the opportunity to resolve _this_ dispute as a citizen of Arachne.”

Tony cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady, he only had half an idea of what he wanted to say.

“I think the least we can do today is extend some compassion to my husband’s tender heart,” That was good, and with the confidence in his tone Tony set a cold smile on his face, “The royal family of Ferrum calls for a mistrial. Bradley Davis should be charged with assaulting the Prince of Arachne, _not_ the Prince Consort of Ferrum.”

“And the defendant’s defamation against yourself, Your Grace?”

_You sucked that murderer’s dick to save your own skin._

Rage boiled in Tony’s stomach and made the centre of his chest burn. He had half a mind to hold the Arachnean man on charge of treason anyway.

But… Peter’s little stunt would backfire on Tony _then_ too.

Tony’s hand had lifted to rub anxiously at his chest but he stopped the nervous tic, waving idly instead. “All within a few days of our men entering the city. Why, I recall my own husband called me a murderer too.” Tony fixed his gaze on Peter, “The comment can be set aside, provided _everyone_ knows their place now.”

Peter’s eyes widened and he swayed on his feet. But he nodded and gasped out his confirmation when Jarvis asked if this was agreeable.

When the kid turned to his friends, Tony tried to aim a smile at Jarvis, but the man just shook his head and turned away.

The court shuffled through the unfamiliar procedure of a mistrial. All the while, Tony watched Peter. What the hell was this about? Did the kid just want people to talk about the king shouting and being shown up in court? Did it give him some kind of satisfaction, a sense of power, of control over Tony?

Tony’s lip twisted in anger; _that_ wasn’t okay. Peter might have cobbled together a smug little victory, but Tony was going to have to show him that _this_ wouldn’t happen again, would have to remind him that he wasn’t in charge of _anything_. If that meant putting the prince in his place with more than his head cracked against the wall, then so be it.

Tony followed Peter’s flight from the courtroom intending to make that clear right away. The kid seemed to have an idea that he was in trouble, what with how quickly he’d bolted. But Tony wasn’t going to let him get away, he wasn’t going to let Peter traipse through the afternoon revelling in any victory or euphoria.

The boy turned at the end of the hallway and Tony sped up. He opened his mouth to shout for Peter when —

Good God, what _was_ that sound?

A whining, anguished cry echoed in the hall and Tony winced. It cut off abruptly and then was followed by a shuddering gasp.

Tony was trying to figure out why someone was eviscerating a cat when he turned the corner, not wanting to lose track of Peter, and —

Peter’s back was heaving with the labour required to breathe, one hand stuffed into his own mouth to choke back the sobs tearing through his body. His other hand was splayed on the wall, too much of his weight pressed up against it as his tears dripped onto the floor.

Tony swallowed, his anger dissolving in a new wave of concern.

Peter wasn’t celebrating his courtroom success. He wasn’t gloating or flushed with triumph. He looked like he might collapse to the floor right there.

Tony glanced back toward the courtroom, not knowing if he should stay or not. If this was the beginning of another mental break, someone ought to be present. The kid’s last episode left him at death’s door for _days_.

Then Peter leaned his forehead against the wall, his eyes closed. The next breath he took was steady and controlled. Tony watched Peter slowly breathe in and out, wiping his eyes while he retrieved that silly sweater from the floor.

Tony thought Peter was going to continue in the direction he’d been going, but instead he turned back toward the courtroom, back toward Tony.

Peter squared his shoulders as he made his way back down the hall. The closer he got, the more Tony could see the glassy shards of tears in his eyes, rimmed by red and purple. Tony couldn’t look at him; he found himself glancing back toward the courtroom with no idea what to do or say. He didn’t know how to make this better, if he even could.

He moved to squeeze Peter’s shoulder, to provide a touch of comfort or reassurance as he’d done when the boy was sick, but Peter flinched away. Tony quickly clasped his hands together and lowered them, heart skipping a beat at his own uncertainty.

“That was… I had no idea you were as well-versed in law as you are in medicine,” He kept his voice low and then laughed, “But I suppose you have _nothing to prove to me_ , right?”

Tony _had_ known, of course, that Peter was familiar with law books. The prince had proven his own skill in contract negotiations. But that was different from holding his ground in a courtroom; Peter had spoken with confidence and knowledge, had been assured in his own expertise and the ability to bend everyone in there to his will.

Tony shook his head. He was done playing games and spitting insults, Peter deserved the respect of a clear question.

“I just don’t get it.” Tony sighed honestly, “I mean, he _humiliated_ and _insulted_ you. He _hurt_ you. Why… why would you just let that happen, let him get away with it?”

Peter’s voice was strained and tired when he spoke, “You, of all people, have _no right_ to ask me that.”

Feeling submerged in ice again, Tony was just barely aware of Peter telling him he was going to the library and marching away down the hall.

He made his own way back to the courtroom feeling almost dazed, like _he_ was the one who had been thrown against a wall.

They went through three more trials, but Tony wasn’t able to pay much attention to the proceedings.

He reflected on the short time he’d known Peter, on what he had really seen of the so-called _coward prince_.

He thought of Peter standing tall in the courtroom, confidently protecting his countryman.

Peter dancing fluidly on their wedding night, each step not just memorised but graceful despite lingering nerves from the ceremony and exhaustion from his illness.

Peter insisting he could save Rhodey’s life in the infirmary, not just making a claim to knowledge but proving himself when the surgery succeeded.

Peter looking Tony in the eye and lying about Davis’ death the night after the attack.

Peter negotiating dizzying arguments in Tony’s office as he debated, utterly alone, against Ferrum’s best legal minds.

Peter throwing Arachne’s royal crown out a window. Sitting in that office and challenging Tony to kill him... And then sacrificing his own dignity to save his people.

Regret flooded Tony’s stomach and reared up to his throat.

Peter Parker had _never_ been just a pampered noble. He was not, as Tony had assumed, merely a placeholder until King Benjamin had his own heir. He was not an ignorant child lounging in comfort while others suffered and bled on his behalf. He was not a feckless boy too cowardly to set foot on the battlefield and too spineless to protect his own people.

Peter was a prince raised to be a king.

* * *

After court closed for the day, Jarvis accompanied Tony to a quick dinner and then back to his office — the very space where Tony had knocked Peter to the ground and pinned him to the wall. The silence between them was growing painfully taut; but when Tony started to speak, Jarvis interrupted him:

“Milord, were you the one who hit him?”

Tony swallowed. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced out the window. The sun was setting, but the end of the day didn’t come with the same feeling of relief it usually did.

Tony paced to the windowsill, trying to answer as carefully as possible. “What I did was _not_ the same as Davis. The way Peter described it was —”

“Quite intentional.” Jarvis interrupted and Tony gritted his teeth. Jarvis was right. Peter hadn’t just won in court today, he had completely blindsided and outwitted Tony in the process.

Jarvis arranged several stacks of papers on the desk and began to rifle through drawers. Tony’s fingers itched again with that old urge to build. He should _hate_ smithing after the first few decades of his life. But sometimes it felt like the only way his mind would be quiet.

“Well, we’re fortunate that your husband does not truly wish to indict you.” Jarvis sighed, “If he had named you today, when it got back to the people in that city—”

“I’m well aware, Jarvis,” Tony just barely kept the snarl from his voice, “Why else would I have indulged him?”

“Well, I dared to hope you _might_ want to help the man you share a bed with.” Jarvis’ smile was wry. He must have sensed Tony’s patience wearing thin, because he started for the door. “Goodnight, milord.”

Tony grunted in response and looked out the window again, rubbing his fingers and thumb together.

“Milord,”

Tony turned, surprised to find Jarvis still hovering in the doorway. His lips were pulled into a grim line and his eyebrow was twitching, as if arguing with himself.

Tony sighed. “Speak your mind, Jarvis, go ahead.”

Jarvis inclined his head graciously, “Appreciated, milord. And I do hope you’ll forgive me but… When you took the throne from your father, I had hoped Ferrum might finally have a good king. Or at the very least, a better one. I implore you _not_ to prove me wrong.”

Tony sneered and flicked his hand dismissively toward the door, “Get out, Jarvis.”

“Of course, sir, your agenda is on the desk. I will see you in the morning.”

And then Tony was alone.

And being alone meant, of course, that Peter was on his mind again.

What was he doing in the library all the time? What did he talk about with Bruce? Had he ever indicated to Beck he wanted to go into the city again? Who was the girl at the trial today, the friend from the bakery who testified? For that matter, who was the girl in the tower the day Peter and Tony met?

The body of a soldier...

In all the time Tony had known Peter, the boy had exhibited _one_ act of violence. When Tony had ordered that the girl’s body be removed, and his soldier made to drag her away like some slaughtered animal, Peter lunged at the man with a letter opener.

He couldn’t have really hurt anyone, not with _that_. But now, with everything else Tony had come to know about Peter, he began to wonder who she had been. Tony had thought her only another brave soldier protecting her useless liege, her smallest finger more worthy of respect than her prince’s entire body. He had wanted to grind how little he thought of the boy into his pretty face. But... Had she been a friend too? A _lover_ , even?

“Hey Tony, Happy says you got your ass handed to you in court today.” Tony groaned when the door opened and he looked at his friends.

Rhodey was the one who had spoken, holding a cane in one hand with his free arm around Bruce’s shoulder. Happy held the door for them, balancing an amber bottle and four glasses in his arms.

“We thought you could use a drink,” Bruce explained, helping Rhodey toward a door on the far side of the room.

Tony had glanced into the adjoining drawing room once or twice, but hadn’t yet made use of it. Now he allowed a small smile and followed his friends inside, accepting the glass Happy offered him. They sat down in plush green chairs, barely taking up half the space available. The emptiness and long shadows of the room seemed to swallow them.

Tony took a big gulp from his glass, wondering how long he could stretch this out. He was in no rush to go back to his quarters tonight.

Rhodey raised an eyebrow and used his foot to kick at Tony’s ankle, “Hey, you wanna talk about it or are you just going to sit there moping?”

Tony laughed ruefully and shook his head, craning his neck to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t even know where to start,” he sighed, “I mean, that kid is…”

_Infuriating._

_Brilliant._

_Passionate._

“Too smart for his own good?” Happy prompted and Tony shrugged. That would do.

“Really kept his cool, huh?” Bruce’s voice was tinged with respect.

“Well,” Happy chuckled, “I thought he was gonna puke when we brought Davis in.”

Tony didn’t laugh at the memory, embarrassing as it was for Peter. The colour had drained from the kid’s face and he choked on his breath, voice pitching anxiously when he asked for a recess.

“Seriously, Tony, why’d you do that?” Bruce asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Why’d you _pull that_ on him? No warning, nothing.” Bruce raised one eyebrow, it almost felt like he was taunting Tony when he added, “Need I remind you he almost died a week ago?”

Tony sighed; he’d hoped everyone would be a little drunker before he had to face this question. But then, it would’ve been a shame to waste Howard’s liquor stores on drunkenness.

“I just thought…” Tony swallowed, “Peter _lied_ to me about Davis. When I had him arrested and dragged in there, it was just to show him that he can’t do that.”

Jarvis wasn’t there, but Tony could practically see the man rolling his eyes.

“Well, you really showed him,” Rhodey smirked, “I don’t even _want_ to know what that kid can do once he’s had time to _prepare_ for a court case.”

Jokes aside, Tony kind of _did_ want to know. He wanted to watch Peter well-rested and well-researched; wanted to see his brow furrowed and mind at work at the peak of performance...

Tony rubbed his chest, “It was about the lie at first. But then, as soon as we started — Happy knows, he heard the things Davis said about me, about _Peter_.”

Happy nodded, scowling.

Tony had to swallow a couple times. He found it hard to actually look into anyone’s eyes, so he kept his gaze on the floor, “Well, then I thought... if I could have Davis punished for it... if I could help Peter get some justice. Then he’d see that I’m able to look out for him now. That... _I_ take care of him.”

Tony locked eyes with Bruce.

“That’s what husbands do, whether they have a crown on their head or not.”

Happy scoffed, “Hate to break it to you Tony, that kid doesn’t _wanna_ be taken care of.”

“Oh, come on,” Rhodey shrugged, “Everyone wants to be taken care of a little bit.”

“Well,” Bruce hummed, the corner of his lips twisting in thought, “Everyone _wants_ to be taken care of. Everyone _needs_ to be taken care of. But does Peter want _Tony_ to be the one to do that? I doubt it.”

Happy snorted, “For all we know the kid’s figured out how to ‘take care’ of Tony by now. It’s not like he’s got no reason.”

The silence that followed had an unnerving chill to it. Tony cleared his throat, eyes flicking between his drink and Bruce. Of the four of them, Bruce was the one Peter talked to the most. So if anyone knew anything then —

“It would go against everything Peter values,” Bruce shook his head, “He could’ve let Rhodey die by his own inaction, and we never would have known! He wouldn’t even let a man who attacked him be punished for it because, according to him, our punishments are ‘too harsh!' I _really_ don’t think he’s gonna make the leap to some kind of underhanded murder plot — do _you_?”

Tony felt a tension lift from his shoulders, one he didn’t even know had been there. Happy shrugged and crossed his arms, “If we keep underestimating him at every turn, then —”

“I think we’re _all_ done underestimating him.” Bruce said, fixing his gaze pointedly on Tony. “Did you talk to him after the trial?” The unspoken _and were you kind?_ hung in the air.

Tony thought of his brief encounter with Peter in the hallway, the boy’s thick tears and frigid words.

Tony shrugged and reached to refill his drink, “For a minute. He told me he was going to the library.”

Rhodey nodded, “Beck said at dinner he was going to go check on him.”

“Great,” Bruce scoffed. He leaned back in his chair, “I swear, testifying that Ton— I’m sorry, that _somebody_ hit Peter is the only honest thing that guy’s ever done.”

Happy laughed and Tony hid his smile behind his drink. Rhodey rolled his eyes, “What is your problem with Beck? He’s a good soldier and a nice guy, but you’re constantly giving him grief.”

“I’m a gentleman, Rhodey,” Bruce grinned savagely, “ _I_ would never hurt someone’s feelings _by accident_.”

Happy shook his head.“You gotta admit, Rhodes, there’s something ‘off’ about that guy. He _smiles_ too much.”

“Yeah? _You_ just can’t stand that he puts your ass in the dirt every time you spar,” Rhodey retorted.

For just a moment, sitting over a drink joking with friends, Tony felt okay. Something in his chest loosened, something in his heart breathed out a sigh. Like he’d been holding in a breath since he’d met Peter, or since his duel with Ben, or maybe even ten years before that.

“Tony,” Tony focused on Bruce again, who was standing up, “I think it’s time for you to go talk to your husband.” Tony sighed but nodded and stood up. He told Rhodey and Happy goodnight and followed Bruce back into the office.

Bruce stopped at the door, “I nearly forgot, I was going to ask Jarvis to add something —”

“Put it in my agenda, there,” Tony nodded toward the desk, “I’ll get started on whatever it is tonight.”

Bruce nodded and crossed back to the desk, scratching an addition into the thin leather-bound book.

“Bruce, has Peter ever mentioned a _girl_ to you?”

Bruce’s brow scrunched when he looked up at Tony, “A _girl_?”

Tony shrugged, “When Peter and I met, there was a girl — well, a girl’s _body_ — in the southern tower. She was one of Arachne’s soldiers. When we started to drag her away, Peter got… agitated.”

Bruce shook his head, “He hasn’t told me anything about a girl. He had a _lot_ of reasons to be agitated that day, Tony.”

“I _know_!” Tony snapped, then swallowed, carefully reeling himself back in. This _damn kid_ got in his head way too much, “I just don’t understand why… I mean, if she was important to him… Why wouldn’t he have asked me about her body. About her grave?”

Bruce sighed while he dried off the quill he’d used. “Tony… think about the conversations you’ve had with Peter. Cold, harsh…Few and far between, right? And I’m willing to bet more than just the one ended with you smacking him around. Every person in this castle knows you don’t respect him, half of the servants treat him with contempt because of it!”

Tony swallowed. He had spent the last two months turning Peter into an afterthought for himself; a convenient means to end the slaughter. Now, challenged to see the ways the boy had been mistreated by Arachnean and Ferrumean people alike, Tony found he could come up with nothing to say. He didn’t want to apologise, didn’t want to admit to any mistakes, he just wanted…

He wanted Peter Parker, everything about him, to be easier.

Bruce shook his head, brow tightening at Tony’s silence, “I’m just saying. Even if Peter has a question for you, he’s not gonna risk asking. You and I both know why.”

Tony opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He stood very still a moment, memories lingering briefly upon Ferrum and unhappy childhoods.

The thought of Peter made Tony’s head _ache_ now, so he asked with a small smile, “Spent any more time with Miss Ross?”

Bruce flushed a little but before he could ask, Tony added as his grin broadened, “I saw you two getting along at the wedding.”

Bruce huffed, “Well, she’s nice but…”

“She’s not Natasha,” Tony filled in, “Bruce, I’ll call her back in. I —”

“No. Nat is probably the _only_ thing keeping King Steven from launching his own campaign against you, Tony. You need to keep her in the field for now.” Bruce closed the agenda book and passed it across the desk to Tony. Tony put his arm around Bruce’s shoulder as they started for the door.

“Alright, but if you —”

“Tell you what, Tony. If you ever get Peter to ask you about that girl’s grave, I’ll let you pick out Nat’s wedding ring,” Bruce laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of his own suggestion and, patting Tony on the back, waved goodnight.

For a moment, Tony lingered outside the office. He thought about going back in to sit with Rhodey and Happy again, the flavour of the Ferrumean whiskey had helped to ground his mind. Or he could go to the kitchens for a bite to eat, maybe a nighttime stroll in the gardens. He even considered seeking out Beck, to try and inquire about how things went at the library.

Peter probably didn’t want to see him right now, anyway.

Tony shook off the thoughts. They were born from cowardice, after all, and wouldn’t it be rich for _him_ to indulge such a thing now?

No, it wouldn’t do for either of them to avoid one another. Tony was the king, he would go where and when he pleased, and the kid would just have to get used to it.

So, despite the uncertainty coiling in his stomach, Tony straightened his vest, squared his shoulders, and started back to his quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> Remember that time I wrote a chapter and half of it was just me rewriting the end of the previous chapter. And in the other half of the chapter, nothing happened? It's this one, it's chapter 12. Sorry! I may regret telling you this, but there's a 'soft plan' for Chapters 12 and 13 to be treated like two halves, which means Chapter 13 will be uploaded this Monday instead of next Thursday!!  
> Depending on how my midterms go, that might also not happen and you'll just have to wait for next Thursday! 🎉  
> In any case, we'll get through the story eventually. Thank you all for sticking with me, I feel like things have slowed down a lot in this particular section but I promise we'll pick back up soon!  
> Thank you to my wonderful beta reader Silver Lurker, as well!  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	13. Beeswax Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter learns more about Ferrum, and Tony takes on a new task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Discussions of scars and violent warfare. Peter is still picking at the spot on his hand.

Peter sat in the loft of the library a long time after Brad’s trial. He stared out the window, thinking about nothing.

Quite literally. He thought about the nothingness that occupied more and more of his days. There was an apathy creeping up on him, a weight of listlessness flowing into his veins. Defending Brad had given him a spark of something, a hint of usefulness, of confidence.

But now he doubted Tony would let him back in a courtroom again. Peter had been locked out of Arachnean affairs since the day they met; he didn’t know a thing about the state of post-war infrastructure, their military, how the harvest was being impacted...

This absence of knowledge brought on an immense fear in Peter’s stomach and made him choke on his next breath. He had become so used to sitting at his uncle’s side for judicial and legislative affairs; spending long afternoons with tutors studying economics, science, and mathematics; attending dinners discussing politics; whiling away the evenings reviewing herbalism and medical practice with his aunt and Arachnean physicians. Now the emptiness felt consuming, it left his mind feeling bare and a bit grey, like there was a fog dulling his senses.

Negotiating the legal contract with Tony, overseeing the court cases, those had given some relief, some purpose; now, Peter suspected the only thing left would be his poison.

With that thought in mind, Peter bent over to retrieve his box underneath the library bench. His brow furrowed as his mind settled back into familiar pitfalls.

Some complications with the poison were genuine: he needed to harvest all the ingredients himself, and he wasn’t going to find opium poppies around the castle or even in the city. And opium probably wouldn’t kill Tony by itself unless Peter acquired a ridiculous amount of it, _then_ it might not be soluble or the flavour might be noticed. It _would_ be useful in getting the king to sleep, though.

Aconite was another option, but could far too easily be detected upon ingestion, reported, and then linked back to an Arachnean citizen — the plant and country were linked by an old legend. It would also be very painful, a thought which Peter couldn’t quite stomach.

Other concerns stemmed from Peter’s own paranoia: would it be safe to track down and distill any metal-based component, such as arsenic, considering Tony’s background? The king might be more attuned to such a threat. Peter could mask the flavour with berries, ginger, or other spices — but which ones? And too much sugar could dilute the toxins.

The lack of sleep was creeping in again and Peter yawned. He stood up, swinging both arms to try and wake himself up, and crossed to two of the bookshelves scrunched in the loft. This was the same corner where he had sat with Beck, where he had learned Uncle Ben asked — no, _begged_ — Tony to marry him.

_Marriage is a sacred thing. When you make your vow, you pledge everything you are, everything you can be, to your spouse._

Peter reached for one of the shelves to steady himself, swallowing a lump in his throat. Who had said that to him? Uncle Ben? Aunt May? A teacher? Michelle?

Peter swallowed his own smile.

No. She might have agreed with the sentiment, but it wasn’t the type of thing Michelle would have said.

Peter flipped through two books, mumbling over annotated sketches of medicinal herbs. Hemlock seemed promising, and like something May would have grown in their herb gardens.

Peter put one book back on the shelf but walked the other back to the window and the bench, pausing as he folded his loose papers between book pages and stacked the books.

Peter’s brow twitched in concern. The contents of this box were becoming increasingly… suspect. And, though he couldn’t put his finger on why, he already had the vague concern that they’d been at risk once already. Maybe Bruce had looked over his shoulder? Maybe he should write in some warnings or innocuous notes?

Peter’s tongue slipped from between his lips while he thought about taking the box to his own quarters instead. There was greater risk of Tony or a servant seeing it, but Peter had better control over who came in and out. And would they recognise the contents anyway?

“Peter?”

Peter jolted and spun around, swallowing when he recognised Beck at the top of the stairs. The soldier held a plate in either hand and offered a sheepish smile as he walked forward.

“I’m sorry,” He started, Peter hurried to throw the rest of his things into the box and tuck it under the bench; he hoped it just looked like he was clearing space for them to sit.

“What are you apologising for?” Peter asked while he took one plate from Beck, stomach twisting at the sight of a huge seared steak over a bed of fried eggs. It was served with a side of carrots and potato slices that had been cooked too long, so they just looked a bit mushy. Even on a steady, well-rested stomach, he doubted he’d be able to tolerate such a meal.

Beck shrugged while he sat down on the bench, balancing his own plate on his lap and digging into an identical meal. “Well, just now I was apologising because you jump a mile in the air every time I talk to you. I don’t mean to sneak up on you,” His laugh was kind and he continued around a bite of steak in his mouth, “but I also wanted to apologise for today. That was… with Davis. That was really hard on you.”

Peter stayed standing and put his plate down on the bench. If Beck thought his behaviour strange, he didn’t comment on it. Peter looked out the window, his voice a bit distant when he said, “You’re really not the one who should be apologising.”

Peter worried for a moment that the comment went too far, that he’d spoken out of turn against Beck’s king — _their_ king. He feared an uncomfortable silence but Beck just smiled, his response fluid, “Ahh, I’m a soldier Peter. I’d fall on my own sword if His Grace required it. Perhaps you’ll accept some small apology on his behalf too.”

Peter smiled. He knew that Tony had not sent Beck here to apologise, but they could both…

 _Pretend_. That’s what Beck had said at the wedding. _You could at least pretend_.

“Hey,” Peter looked down when Beck nudged his wrist, a bright look of admiration fixed up at him, “I’m serious, Peter. That was amazing, what you did today. The king owes you an apology, and _someone_ needs to acknowledge how impressive it was.”

_I had no idea you were as well-versed in law as you are in medicine._

That’s what Tony had said. It was barely an acknowledgement, and definitely not an apology.

“Thanks, Beck.” Peter swallowed and gently ran his nails along the wound on his hand, “I just don’t want you to get in trouble, for lying about Brad in the first place.”

Beck’s lips curved into a gentle smile, “That’s nice, Peter. But I’m alive and well aren’t I?” He shrugged. “The king has a temper. But once it’s over, it’s over.”

They were both silent for a moment. Part of Peter wanted to ask where that control and grace had been when his uncle begged for his life. Ten years of violent campaigns, and the best Beck could offer was _but once it’s over, it’s over_?

“What about the Kunira Massacre?” Peter asked, not entirely sure why he was bothering to ask. Beck was one of Tony’s soldiers, so it didn’t compare.

Beck looked down at his plate, moving the carrots around with his fork. “The king… he’s always denied giving that order.”

“It still happened under his purview,” Peter answered, “He’s still the one responsible.” He leaned against the bookshelf on his right before asking, “Were you there?” The question stemmed from a morbid, and inappropriate, curiosity. But still, the opportunity to hear about such a thing firsthand was a rare one. 

“I was there for the invasion, I helped round up the survivors. But I wasn’t…” Beck swallowed and wouldn’t meet Peter’s gaze, “I wasn’t present when they…”

“It’s alright,” Peter jumped in, “I’m sorry I asked.” It had been a cruel question, to dredge up memories like that for anyone.

“He had the men who did it executed.” Beck added after a moment.

Peter swallowed. As ever, Ferrum’s king fought fire with fire. And what had that accomplished? It did absolutely nothing to bring back the lives lost and destroyed, and killing the perpetrators on the spot probably only caused rumours of Tony ordering the massacre to spiral even more.

The air in the library seemed stifling now, Beck’s mood was subdued. Peter’s untouched plate lurked below him.

“Have you been with him the whole…” Peter stopped, his tongue sticking out a bit in thought, “I mean, the whole ten years? Ever since...”

Beck lifted a hand to run his fingers through his hair, making Peter wonder if it wasn’t just him feeling warm. “I grew up in Ferrum,” he said, “Joined the army as soon as I turned sixteen — the coin was more reliable than any other option — but Howard was still king. My commanding officer appreciated that I was literate, kept me close at hand with the excuse that he needed my help with clerical work. When King Anthony came into power and the military campaigns started, well… it’s easy to earn a knighthood when you’re at war.”

Beck grinned with this last comment, and something about the smile was disarming and kind, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. Like maybe he hadn’t really earned the promotion, or he regretted the loss of life which led to it.

For just a moment, Peter let his gaze wander, considering Beck’s sharp mind and bright eyes and the muscular frame of a soldier. Suddenly he was no longer feeling stifled or just warm, but downright _hot_ and he longed for the cool air outside.

Peter turned to gesture toward the steps, “I was going to walk in the gardens… Do you want to come with me?”

Beck tilted his head toward Peter’s food, “Not hungry?”

“I ate a big lunch.”

It was a pretty obvious lie, but Beck didn’t push the matter. He stood and picked up Peter’s plate, promising to meet Peter at the entrance to the gardens in a few minutes. They left the library together and then split off, Beck returned the dishes to the kitchen while Peter followed a winding stone path to the very place where he had been married only a few days before.

The altar and benches were gone now, the only signs of the event were a few stray green petals. Peter stood at the spot where they’d sat on the bench, remembering the heat of that night and the fear in every step. Having Beck there, those brief minutes outside, had been a relief.

As soon as Beck met him, Peter took them deeper into the gardens, walking past trimmed hedges and colourful chrysanthemum blossoms. The evening brought with it an orange sky and light breeze, stirring the branches and carrying a sweet fragrance in the air.

When they’d both been quiet for a while, Peter’s mind absorbed in the rustle of small animals and the sound of their own footsteps, Beck spoke, “So, you can write legal contracts, saw off infected limbs, debate in a courtroom… holding out on anything else?”

Peter laughed and shook his head quickly, “Any other prince would be able to handle the law just as well,” he said, “and the medical knowledge… We have Arachnean doctors and scholars to thank for that. I didn’t come up with it.”

“You’re always selling yourself short,” Beck chuckled, “the difference between understanding and execution is _everything_ , Peter. Even if we’d _known_ about amputation, none of us would have been able to pull it off for General Rhodes.”

Peter strolled to a stop as they reached the rear walls of the castle. Aunt May had three large plots here dedicated to herbs and medicinal plants. When Peter was growing up, there had always been a guard stationed to deter curious children — Peter included — or ill intentions. Since Arachne fell, no such man ever stood here anymore, but Peter was reticent to suggest they add one.

The precaution didn’t make much sense for someone trying to create a lethal poison.

Peter bent down at the edge of a row of goldenrod stalks, brushing his fingers over the bright blossoms. It looked like someone had given the herbs some basic upkeep, but he still picked out a weed from between two plants and tugged a cutworm away from a stem. Just behind the goldenrod were the lavender blooms of autumn crocus; Peter thought that might be worth investigating as a poison ingredient too.

Then there were rows of datura plants with their cream-colored trumpets and spiky round seed pods, followed by the clustered purple bells of late foxglove flowers hanging off of tall stalks. Something about looking at each plant, assigning its name and uses, eased the buzz of exhaustion in Peter’s head.

He lifted his eyes to scan for the white heads of hemlock; they stood all the way at the back, contrasting with the dark stone wall.

Beck spoke up behind him, “I take it you can name every one of these plants and tell me how to use them to save a life?”

Peter pursed his lips and hummed on the suggestion, tilting his head toward the hemlock, “Well, some of them are a mixed benediction. In the right or wrong hands, they can save a life or end it.”

Beck knelt next to him, both of them staring at the hemlock. It felt to Peter like they were each waiting for the other person to stand and walk out to it.

Beck asked, “Are we sure the right hands are always the ones doing the saving?”

Peter’s chest prickled a bit. The next breeze felt colder than the one before it, the sun was beginning to dip behind the castle walls, casting long shadows around them.

Eventually, Peter rasped, “Murder is a waste on both sides: one man loses his life, the other his soul.”

 _Those_ were Uncle Ben’s words. He was sure of it.

Maybe the origin was easy to guess, or maybe Ben had said something like that the day he and Tony duelled, because Beck said, “He was a good man, Peter.”

“I know,” Peter nodded.

 _Better than me_.

Beck put one hand on his shoulder and gave a firm, reassuring squeeze. “He shouldn’t have died the way he did.”

Peter felt a lump blocking his throat and he nodded. He thought about the way Beck had described his uncle, bending under metal and heat, stained with grass and blood and sobbing at Tony’s feet.

No one should have died like that. Not when the person above them had every power to stop it.

Something to the right moved then in the brush, flashing just next to Peter’s hand.

Beck cried, “ _Peter!_ ”

Peter glanced over and started to pull his hand away.

Then Beck’s hands were on him, grabbing his shoulders and yanking him backward.

And then Beck was seated on the ground with Peter in his lap.

Peter gasped as the squirrel poked its head out from the bushes, eyeing them cautiously. Its tail swished on the ground before it turned away, darting back into the garden.

Beck let out a breathy laugh, “Sorry!” He gasped, loosening his grip. “I’m sorry, I thought maybe it was a snake. In Ferrum — there are — poisonous. A lot of them are poisonous.”

“No, that’s alright,” Peter shook his head, finding himself just as uneasy, “I thought — maybe — too…” he blinked as he twisted around in Beck’s arms to face him, and then flushed. Beck’s right arm was wrapped around his shoulder, hand resting on Peter’s chest. The other hand was on his thigh and now that they were looking at each other their faces were just inches apart.

“Sorry!” They both gasped at the same time, scrambling to untangle themselves and stand up, “Sorry.”

“I — I — I need to —” Peter turned in a full circle and made a vague gesture back toward the castle.

Beck nodded, bowing very slightly and clasping his hands behind his back, “Of course, it’s getting late.” He acknowledged, “I’ll — I’ll let you —”

“Right, I’m going to… I’ll be turning in,” Peter swallowed. Beck bobbed his head, not making eye contact. Peter couldn’t blame him.

“Well,” Beck nodded to him and stepped away, back straight and feet held stiffly apart, “Goodnight, my Prince.”

Peter turned away from him quickly, waving and shouting an anxious, “Goodnight!”

Peter hurried back through the gardens as quickly as he could go, struggling to tame the blush burning on his cheeks.

* * *

When Tony finally went back to his quarters, he hoped Peter would have gone to sleep already. But there were candles lit in the solar when he arrived.

Peter jumped when the door shut and his head shot up. He was curled in one of two chairs next to the fireplace, which had burned down to embers. There was a small end table between the chairs, holding two books and a flickering candle. Peter closed the book on his lap with a snap, but he either hadn’t been reading long or wasn’t paying very much attention because it looked like he was still on the first couple of pages.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

Tony paused a moment, then crossed to the desk on the other side of the room from the prince. He looked briefly out the window behind it, regretting the lack of daylight, and picked up an unlit candle to carry to the armchairs and table where Peter was sitting.

Peter shrank back into his chair when Tony got close, gaze riveted on Tony’s hands as he lit the candle with the one Peter was using.

Tony cleared his throat, “How was the library?”

“Umm, good,” Peter mumbled, lacing his fingers together. “Full of, um, books.” He winced at his own idiotic statement. Then he started rubbing at an open sore on the back of his hand, blood had dried around the edges of it, a line had been smeared down to his wrist.

“Good.” Tony stifled his smile and went back to the desk on the other side of the room to sit with his candle and notebook.

He was vaguely aware of Peter shifting in his seat, and the rustle as the kid turned the pages of whatever he was reading. Tony opened the agenda and frowned over the contents, musing over financial figures and policy notes and confusing reports about the harvest. Ten years conquering other lands, and Tony still had trouble keeping up with the nuances of farming economies.

Things were simpler in Ferrum, where you could swing a pickaxe and work a forge no matter the time of year.

There were several disturbing reports about an Arachnean resistance group who _still_ wouldn’t lay down their arms — they’d caused a minor disturbance the night of the wedding, too.

Tony scratched his chin and skimmed his eyes to the last page, to Bruce’s wide scrawl:

_Peter’s not sleeping._

Tony clicked his tongue, his eyes darting across the room to Peter. It was written like an observation, a statement. Something to be fixed. But what did it matter if Peter wasn’t sleeping? He would fall asleep whenever he got tired enough.

But, Tony had _just_ said he wanted to take care of Peter. Had promised King Benjamin to do as much. He had even admitted to himself that he wanted to see the kid’s mind at work when he was focused and healthy and alert.

Tony twisted in his chair to look more fully at the prince. He was facing the fire, away from Tony, and his book was open in his lap. But his body was a bit too tense to make the idyllic scene believable.

Tony stood up, not knowing quite yet what he intended to do or say. He pushed the chair in and walked to the fireplace, the sound of his approach made Peter look up; his shoulders hunched and his mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. Wary of any adverse reaction, Tony stopped to stand a few feet away.

“Peter, you’re not sleeping.”

Tony winced; that had sounded more accusatory than he’d meant to.

Peter looked down to tug at the spot on his hand again, shaking a little. His dark curls flopped over his forehead and contrasted sharply to his pale skin.

Bruce had _just_ said that Peter wasn’t going to ask Tony for anything.

“I mean,” Tony cleared his throat and his hand wavered halfway to his chest, “I wanted to ask if there’s anything _I_ can do. To help you sleep better.”

Peter’s mouth twitched into a grimace and he raised his eyes, they burned amber and gold, highlighted distinctly by the dark circles under them in the dim candlelight.

Peter’s voice rasped a little when he asked, “You want to _help_ me?”

Tony nodded, not breaking eye contact.

“Of course. If you have something in mind that can help, then name it. Within reason.”

Peter swallowed and fiddled with his hand again, digging a nail too hard into the spot. He was probably debating what was and wasn’t _within reason_.

Finally the boy spoke, sounding doubtful, “My aunt’s still room,” he climbed to his feet and gestured across the room. Tony turned his head to face the small door to his right, diagonal from the bedroom and opposite the entrance to their quarters. He had nearly forgotten about the weird little private kitchen.

Peter continued, “It’s umm, it’s locked right now. But when I was younger, there was a tea she used to make to help me sleep.”

Tony almost asked _why_ he needed help sleeping as a child, but curbed his own curiosity. This wasn’t about his own inane private questions.

“I see. When Arachne — when I first arrived here, I looked in there but didn’t have any use for the space, so I locked it. Wait here,” Tony turned around and went to their bedroom. He had to fiddle through a box of personal effects on top of his own dresser to find what he was looking for. He grabbed the key ring, emerged from the bedroom, and motioned for Peter to follow him. Peter snatched up his candle and hurried to meet him by the still room door.

Tony had to stifle his cough when they pushed the door open and were greeted by the heady scent of herbs, the sharpness of pepper and cinnamon, the sweet hint of vanilla, all overlain with stale air and dust.

The prince was at home in the space at once. Peter lifted his candle to light a lantern just to the left of the doorway. He went immediately to the table in the middle of the room to light another lantern before putting his candle down. From there, Peter turned to the shelves crowded with glass jars, bottles, and books.

He reverently ran his fingers over book spines and inspected the unlit hearth. There were dried herbs hanging over their heads; against the wall stood several chests, and two large, sturdy cabinets, each with rows of small locked drawers that Tony had been unable to find any key for. Opposite the door and along the wall to the right were tall arched glass windows. The spindly corpse of a potted plant was in the corner, situated to catch both the southern and western sunlight.

Peter went to the counter along the left-hand wall and pulled out a small chest from underneath it, retrieving a kettle and a tea set. He began to search the jars of dried herbs from the shelves above, muttering to himself as he selected this and rejected that. When he turned back around to add his ingredients to the teapot, he caught sight of Tony again and lapsed into silence while he worked.

Tony watched all this with a smile fighting to linger on his lips. But he kept his face as neutral as possible, resisting the constant urge to sneeze.

Finally Tony asked, “Isn’t this a strange spot for a still room?” Now that he thought about it, Christine Everhart had been complaining there wasn’t a proper one by the kitchen on the ground floor. _“No spices, no sugar, only the most_ common _herbs and some jars of honeycomb…”_ Tony hadn’t paid her much mind at the time.

Or ever, to be honest.

Peter said, “It used to be all down by the kitchens, but my family had to move it because… well, we moved it when I was young.”

“Oh,” Tony said, cocking his head at the dead, spiky plant by the window. Silhouetted like this by night and firelight, the thing looked ready to impale him.

“Well, we can have everything moved back down then,” Tony declared.

He knew immediately that he’d said the wrong thing because Peter’s shoulders sagged a little bit. He didn’t look up from the sheet of paper he’d procured from — well, from _somewhere_ in the cluttered still room that he apparently knew by heart. Whatever spots of colour still in his face vanished and his voice was ragged when he spoke.

“As you wish.”

Tony sighed, struggling not to sound exasperated, “Or, we can keep it like this. Whatever you’d prefer. You… have everything, for your tea?”

Peter nodded, relaxing a little bit. Tony turned away, wondering if he really heard a soft “Thank you,” before returning to the sitting room.

He sat back down with his agenda and reports, letting the sound of Peter walking between the still room and the fireplace fade into the background. It was sort of comforting to work without silence, to have the hum of the water boiling, the crackle of the fire, and the clinking of porcelain behind him.

Tony jumped a little when a cup was set down on the desk, just to the right of his hand.

He looked up at Peter, who held his own teacup and shifted his weight nervously on his feet, not making eye contact.

“It’s umm… rude, to only make tea for yourself.” Peter said. Then he turned and hastened back to his seat by the fire. Tony considered joining him in the other chair, but Peter was nervous enough with Tony sitting across the room from him, so he stayed where he was.

He picked up the teacup and took a cautious sip, wishing just a bit that it were coffee. But the tea was hot and sweet; it smelled like flowers and tasted like apples. He would have told Peter thank you, that it was good, but every time he’d spoken tonight he’d only scared the kid.

Tony went back to his work, enjoying the warmth of the fire at his back and sipping at his tea. And there was something else to it, something to be said for just sitting with another person in the same room, enjoying the physical company even without speaking to one another.

“What would have happened to him? In Ferrum?”

Tony looked up, not quite believing Peter had spoken, that _Peter_ had just initiated a conversation between them.

But Peter had turned again in his seat, twisted awkwardly to face Tony.

Tony cleared his throat before confirming, “To Davis?”

He nodded, and Tony let the silence linger a moment before closing his book and putting his quill away. Then he stood up, carrying his tea and his candle to sit in the chair next to Peter. Peter shifted his weight away warily, but kept looking at him.

Tony laced his fingers together, watching the fire throw shades of light across Peter, feeling the heat on his left and the dark on his right which now seemed all the more cold and empty.

Finally, Tony said, “For assaulting a member of the royal family? He would have been branded.” _At least_.

Both of them looked at the set of fire irons clustered on the edge of the hearth.

“ _Branded_ ,” Peter repeated, his own judgment evident. “He gave me a couple bruises and we retaliate with a permanent scar?”

Tony’s nostrils flared. _Perhaps_ Peter had a point, but he also knew there was more to the affair than giving someone a few bruises. Bradley Davis had attacked their engagement and Peter’s reputation as well.

But then, what was the point in correcting Peter? The kid knew what he was saying and knew what he meant. Even dead on his feet from exhaustion, he could probably match — if not best— Tony in a battle of wits.

When Peter spoke again, his voice was thick: “ _Where_ would he have been branded?”

In answer, Tony lifted his hand and tapped the centre of his chest.

 _That_ set the kid off.

“Are you all _crazy_?” Peter hissed, leaping to his feet with his fists clenched, “He would have been _branded_ _there_? That close to the heart? He could _die_! The infection alone — burns _always_ get infected — that’s _barbaric_! I don’t know how _anyone_ would survive that but —”

“I did.”

Peter blinked at him, hands loosening slowly at his sides.

Tony reached up again but this time he unlaced the top of his shirt and lowered the neckline. He shifted to illuminate the angry scar in the firelight. Peter’s lips parted, but Tony didn’t know if he was shocked at the brand itself or at the vulnerability of Tony showing it to him.

The brand was very simple: a triangle facing downward, each point connected by a circle on the perimeter. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Peter’s eyes seemed to water at the sight. The prince swallowed several times, then reached for the spot on his hand again.

Tony’s fingers lingered over the twisted brand; Peter’s nail scratched incessantly at his sore. For a little while neither of them moved, neither of them spoke.

Then Tony sighed, “Peter, have you heard about my daughter yet?”

Peter’s eyes went to the floor and he nodded. Tony sat back in his chair. He brought his hand up to his jaw, thinking about how tired Peter was, how much he needed to sleep, how much of this story could wait for another time.

He wasn’t really surprised that Peter knew about Morgan. As gossip went, it was a good story. But very few people knew about Tony’s appeal to Howard, about the argument, the arrest, and the brand. The infection and fever.

He had walked into Howard’s castle that day with a sick daughter at home.

When he came to weeks later, Bruce sitting anxiously at his bedside, Morgan had already been dead for three days.

In her final moments, when she most needed her father, he hadn’t —

A lump filled Tony’s throat and a flash of heat made his toes and fingers curl. No, he couldn’t burden Peter with this tonight. Partly for Peter’s sake, but more so for himself.

Tony’s voice was a bit raw when he spoke, “If you know about M-Morgan, then you know she was very sick. I appealed to my father, Ferrum’s king, for assistance. When I was denied… I lashed out. The only reason I wasn’t just executed is because I was Howard’s son, I was ‘riddled with grief.’ So, Bradley Davis? Assaulting a member of Ferrum’s royal family? Like I said, branded _at least_.”

Tony didn’t bother to lace his shirt again, he just shifted it to cover the brand and turned his gaze away from Peter, suddenly longing to be alone.

Maybe Peter picked up on that. Or maybe he wanted to be alone too. Or maybe the tea was genuinely working.

Peter turned away, rubbing at one eye.

“I’m — I’m going to bed,” Peter said.

But, of course, first he stacked his books and cleared their teacups, washed out the teapot, and extinguished his candle.

Peter closed the still room door and made for the bedroom.

“Peter,”

Peter turned and stepped up to Tony, eyes flickering uncertainly. But Tony just fished in his pocket and held out the key to the still room.

“This is yours,” Tony said, nodding slightly toward the room, “Keep it, use the space and contents how you see fit.”

Peter took the key, this time Tony was certain of the quiet “Thank you.”

An hour later, Tony glanced into the bedroom to find Peter fast asleep.

There was something gratifying about crossing out _Peter’s not sleeping_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading everyone ☺️ I really appreciate you sticking through this three-chapter-long day. Fun fact: in my original outline the events of Chapter 11-13 were all described as occurring in one chapter. But then one thing got away from me and then another....  
> The story and timeline will be full sail ahead next week!  
> Thanks as always to my fantastic betareader Silver Lurker.  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	14. Accounting Errors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light blue rain means several things: healing, the end of grief, and peace of mind - to name a few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14 Warnings: Warnings include a spoiler so scroll down to the end notes if you want to check. There's nothing graphic.

Peter met again with Bradley Davis four days after the trial, after the still room and the story of Tony’s brand.

Jarvis and Tony both joined them; Jarvis came to settle the bookkeeping and Tony insisted he approve whatever punishment was eventually meted out. Still wary on the scope of his success, Peter hesitated to argue with this.

Tony sneered that Davis didn’t _deserve_ to set foot in his office, so they sequestered themselves in a small room on the ground floor that Peter suspected was primarily used for illicit liaisons by the castle staff. He might’ve been wrong, of course. But there was an abandoned coin slotted between two floorboards and a stain on the table that had a very specific pattern of splatter.

The others either didn’t notice, or pretended not to.

If Brad was grateful for Peter defending him, he didn’t show it. He had the good sense not to look at Tony and make only a furtive glance in Peter’s direction, but then he slumped onto the end of a bench and pretended to be ridiculously absorbed in his fingernails. There was a yellowing bruise stretching across his left cheekbone.

Peter asked, “Are you alright? What happened?”

Brad shrugged and muttered, “Nothing.”

So the meeting was led with Brad sullen, Tony cold, and Jarvis pragmatic. They awkwardly discussed financial restitution, but any exchange of coin from commoner to prince left a bad taste in Peter’s mouth. Anyway, Brad had been a soldier in a conquered army; he probably didn’t have any money to spare.

Tony suggested with a drawl that a couple years in Ferrum’s mines might straighten Brad out, which made both Arachneans shudder.

Eventually, Jarvis suggested that Brad spend six months serving as Peter’s personal manservant.

Peter started to protest that six months was far too long at the same time that Tony hissed it wasn’t nearly long enough. Brad slumped in his seat mumbling, “I think I might prefer the mines.”

Jarvis shrugged, “Well, if everyone’s unhappy then I suppose that’s as close as we’ll get to a compromise. Six months it is.”

Reassured that Brad would not be scarred, tortured, or left destitute, Peter sat back in relief.

Tony, however, leaned forward and folded his hands on the table, both eyes trained on Brad.

“Look at me.”

Brad stiffened but managed to look the king in the eye. Peter felt goosebumps prickling up his arms but he hesitated to speak, not sure what he should say without knowing what Tony was up to

“You insulted your prince that day,” Tony said, voice low and cold, “You are very lucky that he chose to defend and protect you, considering you failed in that very task yourself.”

Peter thought about the scar stretching across Brad’s torso, the cold shout _“I didn’t get nearly ripped in two just for this fucking_ coward _to crawl in bed with the enemy!”_

Tony lifted a hand and pointed a finger at Peter, “You’re going to make up for that failure now. You will serve him for six months. You will arrive at dawn, you will go home only once we have retired for the night. You will complete whatever task is required of you without complaint — I don’t care if it’s fetching a book or cleaning out chamber pots. If you fail, _again_ , I won’t hesitate to have your mistrial… _revisited_.”

The tension in the air was palpable. Peter wanted to scream at Tony, wanted to tell Brad that he was sorry, wanted to ask him not to view Peter and Tony as one and the same. But he stayed silent, conscious that causing any upset now, when they were on the verge of a relatively painless penalty, could prove disastrous.

“Do you understand me?”

Brad nodded once, his voice shook a little when he spoke, “Yes, Your Highness.”

So Brad became a new presence in the background of Peter’s life, cleaning up after him and bringing him meals or reminding him of engagements if he was too busy working to notice the time. Peter soon found the presence of an Arachnean, even Brad, to be surprisingly comforting.

Peter continued to make a pot of tea every night for himself and Tony. Whether it was really the ingredients or just the familiarity of the flavour, Peter was able to sleep now and the relief of that was overwhelming. The buzzing feeling in his head, like his brain was being stretched and his ears were filled with water, went away within a couple of days. With the relief of sleep came a clearer mind, and the constant stress and grief and anger in Peter’s chest loosened too.

All of that pain was still there, and it still welled up from time to time, but there was something _manageable_ about it now.

Peter didn’t know if Tony really liked the tea, or was just being polite. But the king always finished his first cup and frequently took to asking for a refill. They didn’t talk much except to share vague accounts of their days, but Peter felt okay with that. Tony wasn’t vindictive about losing the case against Brad. In fact, he had told Peter he was more than welcome to continue to attend court, but it had dropped to just a few days a week now that the backlog had been cleared.

Bruce or Beck continued to visit when he was in the library, but Peter took to spending more time in May’s still room. Brad didn’t go in there and Tony had very clearly indicated it was Peter’s space, so he passed long hours dusting, straightening up, taking an inventory, and looking over May’s books and personal notes.

He also spent a few days working with May’s lemon tree potted by the window. The original lemon had been part of a wedding gift to May from Peter’s mother’s family; intrigued by the rare fruit, she had grown the tree from one of its seeds. It was such a striking conversation starter that it led to May introducing Mary Fitzpatrick to Ben, who introduced her to his brother Richard. They were married less than a year later.

The little tree was dead from nearly two months of neglect, but Peter extracted several seeds from moulding lemons May had wrapped and stored before she died. He planted them in small cups in the hope that at least one would germinate.

For just over two weeks, Peter’s life fell into an uneasy routine. Being able to predict what his day would look like, looking forward to a cup of tea in the evening, it allowed the weight threading through Peter’s nerves to dissipate. The tension in his muscles was relaxing, he stopped jumping every time he saw Beck or whenever Tony opened his mouth.

So when Peter and Tony were awoken well before dawn by a loud knock on their door, Peter didn’t jolt awake. He didn’t roll out of bed or even open his eyes immediately. His mind surfaced a bit sluggishly and he heard Tony lurching up, grumbling and muttering under his breath.

The person knocked again, quiet but in faster succession this time.

Peter peeled his eyes open to stare at the ceiling, trying to force his body to wake up more. The bedroom door swung open and the sound seemed to be the loudest thing in the world, crashing into Peter’s brain and making him groan. Then Tony’s footsteps crossed the living room.

Tony’s voice was thick with sleep and raspy with irritation, but even from a room away Peter could make it out, “Beck, if you’re here for anything less than an invading army outside the city gates I’m going to have you drawn and quartered.”

Beck didn’t answer immediately. Peter wanted to shout _he’s joking_! But… it was always a bit hard to tell with Tony.

Still, Beck sounded calm and good-natured, a bit too far for Peter to make out. But he heard “Apologies… the prince…”

Peter sat up, biting his bottom lip to hold back his yawn as he swung his feet over the bed and lurched from the bedroom.

Beck and Tony both looked over at him as he crossed the solar. Beck started to take a step forward but then paused, clasping his hands together nervously. “Pe — Prince Peter. I —” He turned his head to Tony again, stuck awkwardly between who he wanted to talk to and who he was supposed to talk to. “It’s the prince’s friend from the bakery, Elizabeth Brant. I found her at the front gates this morning and she’s requested to speak with the prince… it seems quite urgent.”

Peter swallowed his next yawn and blinked a few times, uncertainty settling in his stomach. He hadn’t seen Betty since the trial. What was so bad she would risk coming to the castle unannounced?

“Is she alright?” Peter asked as Tony shrugged,

“She has no audience, send her home.”

“Can’t I —” Peter cut himself off, gaze flicking furtively between Tony and Beck. He swallowed, “May I please see her?” He addressed Tony, “it sounds like something might be wrong. She’s a friend.” He hesitated before reminding the king, “She testified in my favour.”

Tony furrowed his brow and looked over his shoulder into the solar, like maybe something there would tell him what was going on.

Beck added after a moment, “Perhaps if you stayed with them, milord? I think the young lady is just seeking advice from an old friend.”

Peter shot a shy smile at Beck while the king thought. Tony lifted his right hand to rub his chest; knowing about the brand there, Peter had noticed this habit more and more. He wondered if there was ever still pain there, or if touching the ridged scar tissue just provided some kind of reminder of who he’d been, where he’d come from.

“Bring her here, Beck.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up and Beck hesitated, “ _Here,_ milord?”

Tony nodded, “Peter and I will speak with her here.” He glanced shortly at the prince and said, “Let’s get dressed.”

So Beck left to get Betty. Peter and Tony both returned to the bedroom to change. They stood on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from one another.

While Peter was lacing a pair of white breeches, Tony’s voice made the hair on his neck stand on end, “Her mother owns the bakery where Brad attacked you?”

“Yes,” Peter said, not turning around.

“And you were friends… before?”

Peter cleared his throat, “Yes. She was engaged to my best friend.”

A knock again. Peter hurried back into the solar to get the door, his smile fading as soon as he laid eyes on Betty.

He was vaguely aware of Beck nodding as he turned away, leaving them alone. But mostly he just saw how rumpled and colourless Betty seemed, like everything about her was turning grey. When she saw him she gasped and dove forward, wrapping her arms around his neck like she had at the bakery six weeks ago.

But this hug wasn’t happy or relieved, it was just desperate.

“Betty,” Peter gave her a tight squeeze and hesitated. There was something about her, about _hugging_ her that felt different. Like her waist was firmer or —

“You’re pregnant,” Peter whispered and a sob rocked her body as she buried her face in his chest, nodding furiously.

“I’m sorry!” Her voice was muffled against his shirt, “I’m so sorry!”

“Hey, hey it’s okay. You’re alright.” He murmured quickly, running a hand up and down her back, “It’s okay, why don’t you come sit down.”

Peter swallowed the lump of bile in his throat at how tightly she held onto him, how quickly she dissolved into tears, how sick she looked. Even at the best of times, the people of Arachne could be stringent and cold about things like this. Peter wondered if it was worse in the throes of war and a changing government.

The solar felt overwhelmingly big right now, so Peter took her past the hearth and to a door on the left of the still room. They entered a small, square sunroom with tall windows nearly floor-to-ceiling. Outside, the sky was starting to turn silver with light, but the sun fought to break through dark clouds.

Peter helped Betty into a chair by the window and pulled his own chair close to hers, so their knees were almost touching.

“Can I get you something?” He asked but she shook her head, eye flickering to the doorway. Peter turned around to see Tony had followed them; he hung back in the doorway, perhaps trying to give them space but it felt like he was supervising them, waiting for one of them to say the wrong thing so he could put an end to the visit.

Peter tried to shake off the king’s gaze and turned back to his friend, leaning forward on his knees. “Betty, I hate to ask but who —”

“It’s Ned’s,” she sniffed, wiping both eyes quickly, “We shouldn’t have but… the night before you all left…” Betty bit down hard on her bottom lip and squeezed her eyes tight, tears clumping on her eyelashes. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and choked on her next breath, “We were careful and it- it was just the one time, b-b-but—”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Peter murmured and reached to take one hand in his, “I’m not angry, Betty. I’m just worried, it’s been over four months. Does anyone else know? What are…” _What are people saying? Are you okay?_

“Well… Mom will hardly speak to me, but she helped me hide it for a while. But a couple weeks ago the neighbours found out and now I think — it feels like _everyone_ knows. And I can — I swear I can hear people talking about me all the time and- and- and everywhere I go and —” Betty sniffed and bowed her head, mumbling something that Peter couldn’t make out.

“Betty,” Peter sighed, not knowing what he could say or do to make things better. He wondered if people were still willing to shop at the bakery.

_Plink — plink — pli - pli - plink._

They both turned to look out the windows at a pale cyan drizzle. A smile twitched on Betty’s lips at the sight of the rain and she bumped his knee with hers.

“What did that book say about light blue?” She asked, her voice wavering, “the one your mother had?”

“Dark blue meant sadness,” Peter cracked a smile of his own, “but when it turned light… that meant the hour of grief was over… light blue was healing.”

“Peace of mind, right?”

Peter nodded, his voice a bit thick, “Yeah.”

It was pointless, assigning meaning to the colours. But it was something of a relief to relay that memory to someone who understood it, whose childhood had been steeped in the same stories and legends.

Betty asked, “Did you have a birth rain?”

“Yes: crimson and cobalt,” he said, “you?”

“Lime.”

Peter grinned at that. Bright green was a joyful, whimsical colour.He wondered now if the dark shades of his own birthday had been a premonition.

Something moved in his peripheral vision and Peter twisted around, swallowing when he found Tony standing just behind them. The king bent down a little bit and held out an earthenware cup to Betty. She blushed and lowered her eyes, mumbling a “thank you” while she took the water.

She took a couple small sips, eyes darting to the window and to Peter and very obviously avoiding looking at the king. Tony stepped back just a bit and leaned on the back of Peter’s chair, no one spoke for a few moments.

Finally Betty said, eyes on her lap, “I didn’t want to impose.” She swallowed, “but I keep waking up sick and I’ve been having these — fainting spells. Mom says it’s late for that to still be happening. And I just —” Tears sparked on the edge of her eyes again and her voice was small, “She won’t say it but I can tell she’s so — so angry and disappointed and — no midwife or physician in town will agree to see me and I didn’t — I don’t know what to do, Peter…” She glanced at the king and shyly whispered a correction, “Prince Peter.”

Peter’s eyes watered and all he could think was how _unfair_ this was for Betty. Before he could say anything though, Tony spoke,

“Why won’t anyone see you?”

Betty squeaked the slightest bit at being addressed by the king, but she cleared her throat and smoothed where her dress was rumpled at the waist. She still wouldn’t look up at him. “Well, Your Grace — I… because… forgive me, the pregnancy, Your Highness, I —”

Tony flicked one hand idly when he interrupted her, “I understand that you’re pregnant. Why won’t a doctor meet with you if you’ve been ill because of it?”

Peter looked up at Tony, wondering if he had completely tuned out part of their conversation, “She’s not married.”

Tony didn’t answer immediately, just furrowed his brow in thought.

Peter turned back to Betty, keeping his voice calm and soft when he spoke.

“Betty, if you want to… I could help you get rid of it… there are herbs you can take. It’s dangerous, more so because it's been so long, but I can stay with you and…” he trailed off, not sure what else he was supposed to say. May had always cautioned that such measures should only be taken if the case was desperate; MJ used to say they ought to devote more research to safe practices.

Betty shook her head, gripping a piece of her dress in her fist. “Thank you Peter but… I don’t know, it feels like…a connection to him, you know? I loved him so much… I don’t want to lose that.”

Peter nodded. He didn’t tell her, but he felt relieved by the decision. In part because he didn’t want to risk her life, and because he understood what she meant. Ned’s child left them with something of him to hold on to, something tangible and dynamic and alive.

Tony’s voice drew their attention again, his gaze fixed on Betty. “What if Peter were to visit you, whenever you need, until the baby comes. Help with whatever complications arise. You’ve been trained for that, right Peter?”

Peter hadn’t been, not really. The only thing he knew personally about childbearing came from seeing May’s tear-stained cheeks the mornings after a miscarriage. Ben had always been quiet on those days, he excused himself from duties to walk with his wife in the gardens, firmly reminded castle servants to speak with discretion, asked that Peter not trouble his aunt.

But Peter had access to May’s still room and the library, he could certainly learn what he needed to. Or at least he'd know when to call in a real doctor, and he — or Tony — could _make_ one attend her if necessary. Tony volunteering him so readily made Peter’s head feel a bit cloudy though.

Not wanting to worry Betty, Peter made himself smile, “Yeah. I can come visit as often as you want, Betty, I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly. You’re not alone in this.”

Betty exhaled softly, and Peter recognised how a weight seemed to lift from her, something she had been carrying around for far too long.

“Thank you,” her voice was a bit strained, “Thank you so much.” She managed a watery smile.

“Of course,” Peter reached for her hand again to squeeze it, “I’ll come by in two days, okay. In the morning? We can talk more then, about everything.” Betty nodded and Peter stood up to help her to her feet.

He took her back through the sunroom and the solar and hesitated at the doorway. With Tony insisting on being present during the conversation, Peter wasn’t really sure if he was allowed to escort her back to the gates.

“I can find my way,” she promised at the door to the quarters, and gave him another quick hug, “thank you so much Peter.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, his chin bumping her shoulder. “You’re gonna be just fine, Betty.”

And then she was gone. After shutting the door, Peter turned back around to find Tony standing by the fireplace, eyes on the smouldering hearth.

Peter blurted out, “Thank you.”

Tony lifted his eyes to him and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re welcome,” he said, lifting one hand to scratch his beard. After a moment, Tony walked across the room to close the distance between them, rubbing his hands together almost like he was nervous.

When the king spoke he sounded uncertain, “Pregnancy without being married… It’s a big deal here?”

“Umm… I guess.” Peter shrugged, “People don’t look kindly on unwed mothers… It's thought to be irresponsible. And lying together —” He swallowed, not wanting to put the thought in Tony’s head, but the words were out there now, “That’s very special, only to be shared with your — I mean — with someone’s own spouse.”

“And the fiancé, your friend. What happened to him?”

“He was… Ned… died. Right after the war started.”

Tony swallowed and lifted his gaze to focus on something on the wall behind Peter, or perhaps to just not look at him.

Then, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Peter shifted his weight where he was standing. _I’m sorry to hear that_ wasn’t strictly an apology, wasn’t an _I’m sorry for what I did_. But it might be the closest thing Peter would ever get.

“Well… thank you for... For letting me see her.”

Tony nodded, and fixed his eyes on Peter again. They were almost the same height, but Peter always felt so much smaller than him, like the very slight lift to his chin was an act of submission. But now the king just looked thoughtful and nervous, wrinkles in his hands and the wear in his muscles betraying his age. Peter hadn’t thought about it before, but it might be far easier to just outlive his husband than outright kill him.

Finally Tony said, “It’s important that someone be with her if she’s been sick…” he took a deep breath before continuing, “Pepper — my wife — and I… we lost two children before Morgan was born.”

Peter swallowed the dryness in his throat, gaze flickering to the windows and the pale blue rain — healing, the end of grief, peace of mind.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Peter said, his words echoing Tony’s. “My aunt lost… at least seven, that I know of. That’s one reason why the still room is up here… easier access for her. Sometimes she got very sick...”

Tony nodded and for a while they were both very still and very quiet. Peter listened to the rain and tried not to let his gaze linger on the downward curve of Tony’s lips, the dark shadows in his eyes.

They stayed like that until there was another knock on the door and Brad poked his head in, looking a bit disconcerted to find them standing a bit too far apart in the middle of the room, not quite facing each other.

“Your Highness… my prince.”

Tony cleared his throat and nodded curtly to Brad, then crossed to his desk to gather the papers and black leather book he carried with him everywhere. He swept out of the room without another word.

With a quick nod, Brad started toward the bedroom. Peter looked at the turquoise spots on his neck, his black hair was damp but too dark to show any colour.

Peter didn’t realise Brad had stopped in the doorway to the bedroom until he spoke.

“Prince Peter… I never thanked you.”

Peter looked over at him, and Brad turned around to face him. Every move was reluctant, like he had to drag his muscles through the motions.

“For what you did for me in court.” Brad said, eyes on the floor, “Thank you.” He took a deep breath before adding, “And… I’m sorry. For what I did to you, what I said.”

“It’s okay,” Peter said, “I forgive you.” And they both looked out the window again.

Healing and peace of mind. Maybe there _was_ something to the stories.

* * *

“I’m sorry boss,” Happy didn’t look all that sorry, but his tone sounded genuine enough.

Tony sighed and drummed his fingers on his desk, feeling increasingly frustrated with the start of the day. “What was the final offer?”

Happy shrugged, “Half a year’s wages. I must’ve vetted a few hundred men but… I don’t think offering more is gonna make anyone else come forward.”

“It will be a waste of resources at this point,” Jarvis added, he stood across the office and was sorting through several huge volumes of financial records. Of course, he’d considered it a waste of resources from the beginning. “It is probably safe to assume that the man who was with you that day died in the aftermath or else went home.”

Tony muttered under his breath. He had half a mind to ask them to spread the offer beyond Arachne, to send word back to Ferrum and other territories. But that would be an obscene waste and would probably just result in Happy drowned in _more_ false claims.

Happy asked, “Why is this so important, Tony?”

Tony shrugged, “It’s not, I suppose. I just wanted to see about finding the gravesite of one of Peter’s soldiers, maybe his retainer? I don’t know who she was.”

“Well,” Jarvis sighed, “even if we found the man I doubt he’d be able to remember the grave of one woman. We buried thousands.” Tony nodded his understanding, but it didn’t make him any happier about the whole thing.

So, he’d left it too late to find her body or the grave, fine then. Maybe he could set up a memorial of some kind… Did Betty or her mother know anything about the girl? Maybe even Davis would have an idea, and he was easy to track down these days.

“Boss?” Tony’s head snapped up and he blinked at Happy, his mind vaguely supplying what had just been said. _Rhodey wants to meet with you about the Arachnean resistance_.

“Yes, fine.” Tony nodded, “I’ll see him this afternoon,”

“I’ll let him know,” and Happy turned to leave the office. Jarvis watched him go with a furrowed brow, and Tony knew he was fighting his distaste at Happy’s informality with their liege. But he didn’t say anything.

“Milord,” Jarvis drew his attention as he carried several books over to the desk and opened them up. Tony’s head swam at the columns of compact black ink, thousands of dates and figures squeezed into the pages. He wrinkled his nose; he had never liked looking over the books, not even in his own modest smithy. With a pang, he missed Pepper’s teasing laugh and precise handwriting as she looked over the numbers with him every evening.

“This is last year, and here the year before,” Jarvis’ voice brought him back to the present, the man pointing to two books respectively, “Dates… current stock of the treasury… expected expenses… and review of the harvest stores here,” He used one finger to point to each column as he spoke and Tony nodded, already feeling bored.

“This year,” Jarvis shuffled out a third book from beneath the first two, “we expected the depleted treasury because of the war. But the harvest is of great concern if the people of Arachne are to survive the winter without support from your other territories. We might consider assigning soldiers to help with gathering the crops, perhaps with prizes or other incentives.”

Tony nodded, holding one hand flat on the book and then flipping to a page several months ago. He scanned the notes and then flipped to the beginning of the year.

“Jarvis,” Tony moved the books aside to look closer at the one from two years ago and flipped quickly through each page. “Are these _all_ of Arachne’s financial records?”

“They’re overviews, why?”

“I…” Tony trailed off, something in his chest twisting in doubt, “Have you seen anything to indicate that Benjamin…” He stopped, thinking about Betty crying in the sunroom that morning and Peter’s soft voice speaking about his friend: _Ned died right after the war started_.

He thought of Peter sobbing in this very office, bruised and insulted by his own countryman and then again by Tony.

The girl’s body in the southern tower the day the siege ended.

King Benjamin bent over at Tony’s feet, desperate and sobbing and pleading for his nephew’s life.

The invasion of Arachne had been motivated by unnerving reports that Benjamin was funding other countries, assisting King Steven and buying off mercenaries like Peter Quill. But none of that seemed to be reflected in these books.

But... Tony had seen letters signed by King Benjamin. Had read spy reports confirming as much. Hadn’t he?

“Milord?”

“It’s nothing,” Tony shook his head and shut the book with a snap, shaking off the distraction of his own thoughts, “I’m sorry, never mind. So, this year… soldiers helping with the harvest, you said?”

Jarvis nodded and returned their attention to the record books for this year. Tony swallowed, struggling to quell the doubt making his heart pound in his throat.

He couldn’t bring it up now, but would need to ask Rhodey, Bruce, and Happy about it later.

The discrepancies were probably easy to explain away. Benjamin might have had another set of accounts, private books hidden away for fewer eyes. Or the reports had not yet been entered into the account books. Or there had been some sort of holistic accounting error...

But if not? If there was a problem with Ferrumean intelligence, if Tony had been — what? Tricked? _Used_? — to invade Arachne…

No. He couldn’t stomach that. He would look into this as soon as possible, would find the explanation — because there had to be one.

He had taken too much from Arachne, too much from _Peter_ , to have been wrong about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Brief mention/suggestion of pregnancy termination, discussion of miscarriage
> 
> Hey there folks! 😄 I am trying to take my own advice and disclaim less about my writing. So I won't tell you that I don't like this chapter or have my doubts or any of that ilk this week.
> 
> First and foremost, just so we're clear, no matter how much you suspect, you should never just tell your friend "you're pregnant" based on hugging them, lol. That could've ended real badly, Peter 😅
> 
> I really liked writing Peter's conversation with Betty. As I'm sure you all can tell, crafting these societies and different cultures has been great fun. Speaking of society and culture, it was interesting to think about where Ferrum and Arachne might fall on some of the social issues they talk about; I didn't want Arachne to just be 'the good country' and Ferrum 'bad' or vice versa, they have different values.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed! As always, feel free to leave a comment or stop by on Tumblr or whatever else to say hi ☺️ Many thanks to my betareader Silver Lurker, and I'll see you all next week!  
> -Grace


	15. Shattered Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony takes steps to improve his relationship with Peter and continues to investigate his concerns about Ferrumean intelligence. Meanwhile, Peter prepares to help Betty to the best of his ability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 Warnings: There's a lot of shouting. 😞

The next morning, the day after Betty told them she was pregnant, Peter’s eyebrows shot up at the basket of pastries placed alongside his breakfast plate.

He reached out tentatively, picking up a braided piece slick with icing. The bread was flaky and sticky under his fingers. He broke it open and the scent of blackberries, ginger, and honey oozed out alongside a purple custard. Even without tasting the pastry, the fragrance felt almost like a blow, buzzing in the back of his head and resting on the roof of his mouth, it sent his mind reeling back to vivid memories; Ned laughing in a meadow, Betty picking flowers under bright sunlight, Michelle lying on her stomach with a book.

“Anything in particular you recommend?”

Peter lifted his eyes from the confection still in his hand. Tony was shifting through the other pastries in the basket, he paused to let his gaze meet Peter’s.

Peter said, “This is from Mrs. Brant’s bakery.”

Tony nodded, “I thought that we could try ordering from them for a while… you like their breads, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Peter said, but he desperately wanted to say more. He wanted to ask if that was Tony’s only reason, or if he was in some way looking out for Betty. If this was the king’s way of giving her family a reliable and substantial income with all of the other uncertainty they were living with.

While Peter was still gathering his thoughts, wondering what it was appropriate to ask or say or insinuate about the king’s motivation, Tony picked up a pastry and took a bite. Red jam spilled over his hand and he said, “Oh, it’s sweet!” while lifting a napkin.

“You don’t eat sweet breads?” Peter asked while the king wiped the jam from his wrist and between his fingers.

“We do, but not at breakfast. It’s a dessert.”

Peter thought with a frown that it _did_ seem like a dessert. Pies and cakes and other sweet baked products were eaten at the _end_ of the day. So why did a morning pastry make so much sense in his head?

“It’s good,” Tony said, taking another bite. He seemed to be studying the pastry for a long time before he spoke again, “When I was younger, I spent seven months saving every extra coin I could. I wanted to surprise Pepper for our first wedding anniversary. It was this little strawberry cake.” Tony chuckled, “Well, the night of, I found out that strawberries broke her out in a terrible rash, and she knew about it! One food, ‘one food in the entire world does this to me’ is what she said. God, I was embarrassed.”

Peter returned Tony’s smile, but couldn’t bring himself to do much else. It was a short and somewhat sad story, made all the stranger by the predicament Peter and Tony were both in. There was something… unsettling about a king telling his husband, the product of a loveless arranged marriage, about living in poverty with his late wife. The story felt as sour and awkward as everything else the two of them did or said.

“I don’t have any problems with food,” Peter said finally, “But my friend Ned once convinced a tutor that Aunt May’s perfume had made me sick earlier in the day, so I couldn’t attend my lessons. We snuck out of the city, Uncle Ben threw a fit when we finally came home in the evening.”

Tony asked, inclining his head toward the basket between them, “Betty’s Ned?”

“Yes,” Peter nodded while the king reached for another pastry, “Betty’s Ned.”

They were both quiet a moment before Peter added, “Thank you, for this.” And he finally took a bite of the roll still in his hand.

* * *

After breakfast, Peter went back upstairs to the still room. Most of their materials on obstetrics were in there, close at hand for May to pore over. Peter skimmed notes speculating on how to ensure conception or predict the sex of a child.

He seated himself on the windowsill by the pots with the lemon seeds — none of which had sprouted yet. He flipped through the book with May’s neat notes wedged into the margins and let his shoulders relax with the sunlight on his back. If he didn’t look up, if he didn’t face the fact that May wasn’t there, then things almost felt normal.

Even this type of study was more _normal_ than what he’d been doing. Peter considered what herbs or equipment to pack before seeing Betty the next day.

This felt fulfilling in a way the poison didn’t; this was very directly helping to create a life, the poison sought only to take one. It was peaceful. The work for Betty, preparing to help her with Ned’s child and a safe delivery, exploring the transition into motherhood, there was ease to it. In contrast, trying to create a poison to kill Tony, trying to minimise the pain it might cause and the traces it would leave behind, made his head hurt.

A gentle knock made him lift his head and Peter smiled when Beck stepped into the room. “Davis let me in, can I…?”

“Of course,” Peter gestured to one of the stools at the table and Beck sat down.

“What are you working on, My Prince?”

“I’ve been given permission to visit Betty because she’s been unwell lately. So I’m trying to figure out what I need for the first visit tomorrow.”

Beck nodded, eyes lingering on the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling and then to the cabinets with individual locked drawers. “That was kind of the king, to let you see her.” he said eventually. “Is she all right?”

Peter nodded at this. “I think she will be,” he said and looked down at the book on his lap again. _Tincture of opium can be used to ease pain during delivery._ The word _delivery_ wavered on the page and Peter thought maybe May had shaken when writing it, wondering whether she would ever even come close to nine months. But it was certainly something to keep in mind, and he already had notes on opium. Just not here.

Peter’s head snapped up and he climbed to his feet. Beck twisted in his seat when Peter started past him. “Where are you off to?”

“I need to get something from the library,” Peter said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Isn’t that the sort of thing Davis is for?”

“Ah… right.” Peter stopped in the doorway between the still room and the solar. With one hand on the doorframe, his palms prickled a little. He had added notes to the poison plans, things about medicinal properties and speculation about mixing herbs. Enough to make the box seem more like idle study materials.

Anyway, Brad didn’t know anything about herbalism. And even if he did, would it be enough to decipher the complexity of what Peter was working on? Almost certainly not.

Peter wondered if it would be even more suspicious to insist on going himself, and hated how much uncertainty and doubt were already rearing their heads after just minutes thinking about the poison.

After a couple more seconds, Peter decided he was hesitating for too long and called, “Brad?”

There was some shuffling from the sunroom on Peter’s right, and then Brad hurried out.

“Yes, Prince Peter?” Peter ground his teeth together at the formality but he stepped out of the room and lowered his voice a little.

“On the second floor of the library. Underneath the bench at the window there’s a cedar box with some books and notes in it. Can you bring it to me?”

“Of course,”

Brad turned to cross the solar. Once he was gone, Peter turned back to the still room to face Beck. He paused then, thinking of their hours chatting in the library, the evening in the gardens, and of course the walk on his wedding night. Now, alone in the royal quarters with Beck, he felt a frustrating heat on his neck and shoulders.

Peter wondered if maybe they shouldn’t be here alone together. If maybe he shouldn’t have sent Brad away.

The corner of Beck’s mouth quirked up when Peter kept staring at him, “What? Is there something on my face?” He lifted a hand to rub his beard and Peter shook his head and blushed, stepping around to the other side of the table.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I was just distracted.” He drummed his fingers on the table and looked around for something to do while they waited on Brad. Feeling the intensity of Beck’s gaze on him, Peter turned around and busied himself staring at the shelves against the western wall.

His gaze shifted over rows of small chests and carefully labeled glass bottles. He didn’t move when he heard Beck push his stool back and come around the table. The soldier stopped a few feet away though, Peter hoped it wasn’t because he saw Peter’s muscles tensing the closer he got.

“Can I help you reach something?”

“No,” Peter shook his head quickly, “I was just looking… I’m thinking about teas I could make for- for Betty…” He trailed off, blinking slowly as his eyes darted from one shelf to another, looking anywhere except at Beck’s face. He struggled to school his wandering thoughts

Dried apple peels, chamomile, rosemary, and sage could be good. Pennyroyal — he should tell Betty to avoid that one. Tansy was dangerous for pregnant women too, and...

Peter swallowed and blinked back the water in his eyes. May didn’t just keep tea and perfume ingredients here. She had used this space to treat Peter when he had a fever, to ease his mother’s pain on her deathbed and her own when she’d miscarried, to craft poisons for exterminating vermin in the castle...

His eyes slid to the locked cabinet on his right. Rarer ingredients like vanilla pods or cocoa beans were kept in there, as were more dangerous drugs like opium, hemlock, and aconite.

Peter didn’t _need_ to go scrounging for ingredients in the gardens or sneaking into the city. Every ingredient he needed to kill the king, and then some, was right here in this room. Which meant all he needed to figure out was how —

Tea.

Tony had been drinking tea with him every night for over two weeks. Peter might have to make sure he drank two cups in order for the poison to take effect, but all Peter had to do was add the right ingredients to the very tea they drank every night.

It was hard to explain exactly how it felt when everything fell into place. There was a single, calm moment of relief. Like a cold compress had been placed onto Peter’s head, like some horrible nausea in his stomach dissolved.

And then, right after that, a knot tightened in his chest. The squeeze seemed urgent enough as if to strangle him, and for a horrible moment he was reminded of the night in the library when he’d learned about Uncle Ben’s request.

Uncle Ben who asked Tony to marry Peter, because it would protect him and Arachne.

Uncle Ben who fought to the death for the very arrangement Peter was about to spit on.

In one night, Peter would break his marriage vow, damn his soul, and do it all using the resources left to him by Aunt May and Uncle Ben — people who only wanted peace and harmony. People who had valued human life above all else.

Peter threw an arm out to catch himself before falling, but there was nothing to hold onto. Beck lurched forward and this time Peter didn’t shout or snarl or pull away. He let Beck hold him up while he fought to take in a deep breath.

 _Don’t break down again._ Peter ordered himself fiercely, _you’re sleeping better, eating better, you’re stronger than this. Take a breath_. And he did, already reassuring Beck, “I’m alright, I’m sorry. All of the scents in here... They make me kind of dizzy sometimes...” He started to smile at the memory of Ned lying to their tutor about the perfume, Ben’s disapproving glare and solemn warning that it was dangerous for the boys to make such things up.

“No kidding,” Beck laughed. “Here, let’s go sit down,” but he kept one arm around Peter’s shoulder while escorting him out to the solar. He helped Peter into an armchair by the hearth, the same one he sat in every evening with Tony.

“Can I get you something?” Beck went to one knee next to Peter, a worried gaze on the prince and one hand holding his.

“I —” Peter uncertainly drew his hand away, “No, I’m sorry Beck. But could you — I’m sorry I —”

“I can leave you alone, if that’s what you want.” Beck smiled gently and quickly climbed to his feet, “Peter, I apologise if I’ve —”

“It’s not you,” Peter shook his head, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing one palm to his forehead, “I’m sorry I just got dizzy. But I —”

“Of course, my prince. But please don’t hesitate, if you need anything.”

And for just a second, filled with gratitude and the desire to not be alone, Peter wanted to call for Beck as the soldier made his way to the door. He wanted to turn and ask why he served Tony, even wanted to explain that he had a poison. Wanted to ask, if he killed the king, would Beck forgive him?

But Peter bit his bottom lip hard to stop the confession from pouring out. He waited for the door to close behind Beck and then gasped softly for air, mentally kicking himself for even _beginning_ to entertain such a thought. Not only was it dangerous for Peter, but if Beck _did_ support him? Then he would be just as liable, just as guilty of a disgusting, premeditated act of treachery. No, Peter couldn’t ask that of him.

If Peter killed Tony, it would be no one’s fault but his own.

When the door opened again, Peter’s heartbeat had eased a bit and he was in the middle of reassuring himself that he didn’t need to rush into anything. That he could take time to make sure he really understood how to brew an effective poison, could maybe even find a day best suited or—

“Are you alright? What’s wrong?” Peter lifted his head. Brad stood a few feet away, clutching Peter’s box in his arms, the very notes and plans that he could use to end the king’s life.

“I’m fine, Brad. I just got a little faint, is all.” Peter sniffed and reached for the box. Brad stepped forward and awkwardly shifted the box to balance across his right arm before holding it out. Peter took it, eyes trained on Brad’s left side and the stiff angle of his left arm.

“Can you…” Peter swallowed, not wanting to anger Brad for asking something personal. But Brad, seeming to understand the question, just shrugged and lifted his left hand as high in the air as it could go.

“I can lift it,” he said alongside his demonstration, “but it’s not…” He trailed off and lowered his arm with a wince, leaving Peter to fill in the words unsaid.

_It’s not comfortable. Not easy. Not the same._

Peter tucked the box onto his lap, fingers trailing in the contents. Brad leaned against the other chair with his arms crossed, the one Tony usually sat in. They were both quiet for a moment.

Then Brad spoke. “I didn’t know you were a medic,” His voice was thick and he reached to wipe his nose. He lifted his chin enough to nod at the box, “That’s what that is, right? I hadn’t… that day in the bakery… I didn’t know.”

“I know.” Peter’s voice caught in his throat, “We didn’t want Ferrum to know I was in the field… Didn’t want to give- give him an excuse to target wounded soldiers. As far as anyone else knew, I stayed here to — I think we said I was overseeing correspondence, or something.” Peter managed a strained barking laugh and he pulled his fingers through his hair, eyes lingering on the diagram of the heart on the top of the box.

Feeling a new seed of doubt, Peter asked, “You could tell? Just from —”

“No, no. I wouldn’t be able to follow that.” Brad waved off the concern, “The morning after the trial, Bennett Brant marched up to me in the middle of the street and whacked me with his cane. We both hit the ground, but he said it was worth it.” Peter remembered the bruise on Brad’s cheek after the trial; Brad’s voice was a bit distant when he added, “Then, glaring at each other in the middle of the road, he told me that you saved his life. That you stayed in the field until King Benjamin forced you to return home.”

Brad shook his head. He started to add something more but his voice cracked after “I didn’t —” and so he just scowled at the floor.

“Brad,” Peter’s mouth tasted like he had swallowed ash as he continued to shuffle idly through the notes. “Did you ever kill anyone? In the war?”

Brad shrugged, “Sure,” he didn’t make eye contact with Peter though, and lifted a hand like he was going to scratch his head. He stopped halfway and his arm dropped, instead wrapping around his shirt and tracing over where the scar on his ribcage was. His voice was vacant when he concluded, “It was bound to happen.”

“Right, but…” Peter hesitated, not wanting to accuse Brad of anything. And he certainly didn’t want to give himself away. “Killing in the thick of battle, to defend your country. That’s one thing. If you could… if you were able to kill again, for Arachne, even if you didn’t… Didn’t _have_ to. Would you?”

Brad’s brow furrowed, but not like he was thinking over his answer. More like he was trying to figure something out, was confused by the direction of Peter’s question. When he did speak, his voice was very low, “I wouldn’t join the resistance, if that’s what you’re asking. Do you… are you trying to contact them?”

_I wouldn’t join the resistance._

_The resistance?_

Brad didn’t say _a_ resistance, in reference to a hypothetical. He didn’t say _I wouldn’t_ have _joined_ , in reference to something which no longer existed.

_I wouldn’t join the resistance._

Peter’s understanding was that the fighting had stopped four days after he promised to marry Tony. In the nearly two months since then, _no one_ had mentioned an Arachnean resistance force. Not Tony, not Jarvis, not Bruce or Beck — that wasn’t coincidental. They must have been _told_ to keep this from him.

“Prince Peter?”

“Who… how many…” Peter exhaled softly and struggled to gather his thoughts. “I’m sorry… this is the first I’ve heard of any resistance. It’s my uncle’s guardsmen, then?”

Brad nodded, “You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t know a damn thing,” Peter shot to his feet, throwing the box down onto his chair and whirling toward the door.

“What are you going to do?” Brad called after him. Peter paused at the door to the royal quarters. What _was_ he going to do? March into Tony’s office accusing him of lying? That would probably just get Brad into trouble for telling him, and Tony was under no obligation to tell Peter about ongoing skirmishes. And even if Peter knew about it, he doubted he could get Ben’s personal armsmen to surrender — many of them would sooner fight to the death in the absence of their king.

“Is it safe for you to confront him?” Brad asked, walking forward quickly to catch up with him. “Maybe it would be better to think a minute here, come up with a plan or something.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded slowly, “you’re right. I…” He turned around, eyes flickering between the box and the still room, “I need a plan.”

* * *

“We can’t prove or disprove anything without the original documents,” Rhodey sighed, shifting his weight on the chair in the drawing room. His hand kept fluttering down, like he was reaching to hold the part of his leg that was no longer there. “Do we know where they are?”

Happy snorted “We were getting reports about Benjamin when we were in the middle of dealing with Hammer. _Again_ ,” Everyone groaned at the thought; Justin Hammer had been about as worthless of a king as Howard Stark. The coward had surrendered early, then proved to be a slippery and inveterate schemer. He probably still was, but Harley was keeping him subdued.

Happy finished, “Anything on Arachne that’s not here would be with Keener.”

“Dammit,” Rhodey hissed and Tony heaved a sigh, rubbing at the merciless ache in the front of his forehead. As important as this was, the sun had set hours ago and he was looking forward to sitting down to tea with Peter.

“So send a courier to Harley,” Bruce said, closing the book in his lap and throwing it onto the mess on the drawing room table. It landed with a thud, causing several loose papers to flutter and spiral into the air. Tony caught one before it landed next to one of their lanterns.

“No, I’m not sending a damn courier.” Tony said, “No letters, no random soldier, no one who can be bribed. One of _you_ has to go.”

With Rhodey’s leg and Happy’s work with the army, everyone turned to look expectantly at Bruce. He sat back in his chair with a tired gaze set on Tony. His sigh was gentle as he leaned on one elbow, lifting his other hand to rub his eyes.

Then he shrugged, “Fine, I’ll leave first thing in the morning,” he smiled very slightly. “Who knows. It might be nice to go home for awhile.”

Rhodey cut in, “It’s gonna take _weeks_ , Bruce. There and back, that’s all.” Bruce nodded. Subdued by the late hour and with a clear plan ahead of them, the energy in the room deflated. The focus was replaced by the looming question of whether or not something had gone wrong, and if so what. And what could they do about it now, but wait?

Then Bruce added, “It’s not going to mean a damn thing if we don’t have something to compare the records to.” They all looked at the mess on the table, the prospect of combing through anything else tonight left Tony feeling like a weight had been strapped to each limb, like he was being dragged underwater by a heavy stone.

“I haven’t seen anything that was definitely written _and_ signed by Benjamin,” Rhodey flicked at a notebook hanging precariously on the edge of the table, shifting it to safer ground.

“I don’t think I have either,” Happy shook his head, “We can look more closely while you’re gone, Bruce. But even if we found something, there’s no one left in the castle who could verify it was Benjamin.”

Tony laughed, “Of course there is.” Happy looked at him with his eyebrows raised, Bruce hid a smirk behind his hand. “I’ll ask Peter if his uncle kept journals or something,”

“You could ask him about Arachne’s political positions too.” Rhodey added, “if anyone would want to hurt King Benjamin.”

The thought of _that_ conversation was considerably less appealing to Tony. It was easy to ask about the late king’s writing hobbies over tea, Peter might be despondent but still helpful. But Tony could easily imagine a hostile turn at Rhodey’s suggestion:

_“Peter, did your uncle have any enemies?”_

_“Aside from_ you _?”_

He winced. That question, if he asked it, would have to be handled delicately.

“Alright, let’s turn in for tonight.” Tony declared, “I’ll have someone clean up tomorrow. Bruce, come back to my quarters with me? We can talk to Peter together and I’ll write something for you to give to Harley.”

Happy went to help Rhodey and everyone bid each other goodnight. Tony and Bruce walked back to the royal quarters, Tony’s thoughts torn between Arachnean affairs and his own concerns about Ferrum’s intelligence network. To say nothing of Arachne’s irritating resistance force — the sooner they were out of the way they sooner he could rest easy that Peter wouldn’t find anything out about it.

On top of all of that, there were other things Tony wanted to work on. He wanted to think about prosthetic designs for Rhodey to complement Arachnean amputation techniques. He had also read something about aqueducts recently and wanted to know more about how they worked... For the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t just preparing for another war. He wanted to take stock of his new territories and protect them, help them to thrive.

Before they reached his quarters, Tony turned and put a hand on Bruce’s chest, “Peter’s usually a bit jumpy in the evenings. So just —”

“Tony, you’re not seriously about to tell _me_ not to scare the kid?”

Tony pursed his lips but turned back to the door, straightening his back a bit. “Fine, sorry.” He mumbled and opened the door.

Invariably, Peter had taken to spending his evenings in one of two places. Either in a chair by the hearth reading, or in his aunt’s still room working. He was always quiet though, reminding Tony a bit of a cat padding from place to place, quiet enough but eyes and ears open.

Tonight though, they opened the door and were met by a sound Tony half-expected he would never hear in his life.

Peter was laughing. Loud and full and joyful, the sound was followed by something spoken but he was too far for them to make out what he said. Tony turned his head toward the still room; the door was open and golden light was spilling into the solar. Another voice filtered out, asking Peter a question.

Tony made a motion for Bruce to be quiet and softly shut the door behind him. They both walked slowly toward the still room, Tony tilted his head when he heard the scraping of the table and stools being moved.

Peter said, “Careful… Oh, careful…” and someone grunted as they climbed onto the table.

Then Davis said, “What would be the point of keeping stuff up here if you can’t even reach it?” He sounded downright _friendly_ , another thing Tony thought he would never hear.

“To be efficient with space,” Peter grumbled.

“Okay, but why isn’t there a stepladder?”

“It got moved over the summer. Which, if you’ll recall, was a busy time! Just pass me the —” Both boys shouted when something fell and glass shattered in the still room. Bruce jolted forward like he was going to hurry in but Tony reached to pull him back, holding a finger to his lips in warning.

“Oh god I’m sorry!”

“It’s alright,” Peter was _laughing_ again, that real, genuine laugh that sounded so foreign. “No, no stay up there! We still need the —”

“I got them, here.” Metal jingled through the air and then Brad scraped and thudded back down to the floor from whatever he had been standing on.

“Thanks,” Peter’s voice travelled a bit as he moved across the room, Tony listened to his footsteps, clicking, wood sliding. “It works.” Peter reported.

“And what’s in there?”

“Just other herbs and stuff,” Peter sniffed, “Like, I can use the opium, here, to help when… to help Betty when the baby comes. Or some of them are just valuable. This one, Kamar Taj ginseng… My friend Michelle always wanted to go there. She loved reading and their library is supposed to be —”

“Michelle Jones?”

Something in Davis’ demeanour changed with his question, his voice became guarded and a bit angry. Peter must have sensed it too, how the amicable air between them evaporated.

“Y-yeah. Did you know her?”

Davis hesitated, “I thought you knew who I — did she never mention that she was… seeing someone?”

Peter’s voice sounded hoarse when the realisation dawned on him, “Once or twice, she said… That was you?”

“Yeah. After the war, I was gonna ask her to marry me.”

Bruce tugged on Tony’s sleeve and jerked his chin back across the solar, indicating they should leave. Tony shook his head and stepped closer to the still room, not wanting to miss a single thing the boys said. Particularly if Davis was going to get angry again.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter choked and Tony closed his eyes. He could imagine the pain in the prince’s eyes, the way his shoulders hunched and his body closed on himself, all as he internalised another consequence, took the responsibility of another citizen’s grief upon himself.

Then Peter croaked, “I was with her, when she died. I should have — dammit,” it sounded like he was crying, or on the verge of it. “I _knew_ I should’ve done something, gotten a needle or — but I- I just _sat_ there. Useless.”

“She knew she was dying.” Davis said, in contrast to Peter’s emotion he just sounded drawn and resigned. Like he had replayed all of this so often that he was numb to it, “I found her just after she got hurt. I told her to come with me, to find a doctor. But she insisted on finding you instead… I keep thinking maybe she wouldn’t have— if she’d just come with me then maybe she would’ve been okay. But instead she—”

She fulfilled her duty to her prince over her own life. Michelle Jones was the woman Tony had found with Peter in the tower that day. She had chosen to protect her prince instead of treating her own wounds, and had lost her life for it. Tony remembered now their meeting with Davis, when they finalised the boy’s punishment. He had accused Davis of failing to protect Peter; Davis, who had watched the woman he loved abandon him for the prince instead.

Loyalties aside, that wouldn’t be easy for anyone to stomach.

Tony was getting ready to make his presence known when Peter spoke.

“You’re wrong.”

Bruce gasped and Tony elbowed him to be quiet.

“I mean…” Peter cleared his throat, “She did come to find me, and she was wounded. But she didn’t choose me over you, Brad. She came to tell me about the marriage proposal… She _begged_ me to say yes to - to _him_. To save our people and what was left of our army. I might not have agreed, if she hadn’t been there. If she hadn’t asked me to.”

Peter’s voice was trembling when he finished, “She spent her last moments with me, but it was _for_ you.”

Bruce whimpered a bit but it was drowned by Brad’s voice, “For _me_?” He sounded incredulous, voice inching toward anger again, “Then why didn’t you… _do_ anything?” Brad snarled, “I mean, agreeing to marry him to stop the fighting — fine, whatever. But then you… It’s not honouring her, submitting like this. I’m sorry, but it’s- it’s _not_. You protected us for a moment but you know what you should’ve done? You should’ve cut his throat out as soon as the marriage license was signed. Come on, you attended those trials, we’ve heard the stories, how long is it going to be until Arachne becomes just another Kunira?”

Tony vaguely felt Bruce’s nails tearing on his sleeve but he pushed him off and stormed into the still room roaring, “Good God Davis, how do you still not _get it_?”

Peter and Brad both whirled to face him, the colour draining from their faces. They were standing pretty close together, on the right side of the room by the bookshelves. Tony cast his eyes around to the shattered glass on the floor and the furniture moved out of place.

“Tony!” Bruce scurried in behind him, “Maybe we should —”

“I was starting to think maybe you almost _appreciated_ what your prince has done for you!” Tony shouted, crossing the room and shoving Brad back against the wall. Peter scrambled to get out of the way but stood to the side, looking torn between jumping in between them or just trying to control the situation.

“Do you even have an _inkling_ of what you’ve put him through?” Tony hissed, “The day you attacked him, he told me you were dead so that I wouldn’t have you arrested. Do you think _lying to me_ is a good idea, Davis?”

Brad’s eyes were so wide they looked like they might pop out of his skull and he shook his head furiously back and forth.

“Well he lied to me to protect _you_. And then as soon as he saw you in court, he _defended_ you. Saved you from a brand that could’ve ended your _life_ ,” Tony lifted a hand and pushed at the centre of Brad’s chest, causing him to lurch again but he just hit the wall.

“Your prince has proven time and again to care more for his people than for himself!” Tony growled, “Everything he does is —” Tony cut himself off sharply, almost fumbling over his words. This wasn’t about Peter or how — how _good_ he was. “And then you come in here and tell him he should have killed me in the marriage bed? Do you know what happens to Arachne if your prince lays a hand on me?”

Brad didn’t answer, he just stood quivering against the wall with his shoulders hunched, like a wounded animal. Tony turned away, throwing a hand up in disgust.

“Peter, why don’t you fill him in?”

Bruce was glaring at him from the doorway, eyebrows raised as if to say _what the hell are you doing?_ But Tony was still shaking with rage from the mention of Kunira, from the ignorance and childishness Davis had exhibited.

Peter’s voice was very soft, his tone calm while he kept his eyes fixed on the shards of glass on the floor. “If he dies by my hand then Arachne will — I — it’s not —”

Bruce piped up, “Tony, don’t make him—”

“I don’t think he’ll believe someone from Ferrum,” Tony’s voice was cold, “Look at your prince, Davis.”

Brad choked on his exhale but forced himself to turn watery eyes in Peter’s direction.

Peter wiped a hand through his hair and said, “If h-h-he-”

Tony bit his tongue to stop from retracting his own order. In confronting Davis, insisting that Peter speak, he hadn’t meant to scare the prince _._ But then, Peter was certainly the type to hurt on someone else’s behalf, to shoulder Tony’s anger against Brad.

He had done it before, after all.

“In the contract we signed at the wedding,” Peter’s voice cracked but he kept talking, words coming out breathless and pained, “if I harm or plot against him then I will be put to death, the city will be burned. Any survivors will be sold or s-s-sent to Ferrum’s mines. Chi-children — the children will —”

“ _Tony_!” Tony glanced at Bruce and held a hand up for Peter to stop talking, the boy gasped on the end of his words. Tony fixed his gaze on Davis again.

“Go home. We’ll see you tomorrow.” Davis all but sprinted from the still room. Everyone was silent until they heard the door to the solar shut behind him. Peter’s breathing had steadied by then, if just a bit. He slowly helped himself to sit down at the table, Tony followed his gaze to a wooden box brimming with books and sketches of plants, he hadn’t noticed it in the still room before.

“I’m gonna…” Bruce shook his head slowly, and turned toward the door. He ducked closer to Tony to whisper, “I’ll come say goodbye to you both in the morning. Don’t ask about his family tonight.” His voice was low and serious, like when Peter had gotten sick. Or when he’d warned Tony about letting him rest at the wedding. Or when they’d talked about him after the trial.

Bruce walked out and, with the mention of Kunira behind them and the adrenaline of his outburst fading, Tony started to feel guilt welling up inside of him. Even if he’d been trying to show Davis what a good person Peter was, he’d taken a pretty sorry approach to it.

Peter pushed his stool back and stood, getting down onto his knees to pick up the fragments of glass on the ground.

He had stopped crying and his breathing was under control, but he occasionally paused to sniffle a bit.

Tony said, “I can get someone else to —”

“I can do it.” Peter muttered, and Tony was taken aback by just how _angry_ he sounded. The same threads of anger he had seen in the tower, when he lunged to defend Michelle’s body.

“I shouldn’t have yelled like that.” Tony coughed, “I shouldn’t have — I’m sorry.”

Peter stood up, cradling the broken glass in his hands. He carried it to a wastebasket and then crossed back to the table, grabbing the box and haphazardly throwing it onto an empty space on the shelf. He blew out a candle and started to walk past Tony to leave the still room.

Tony caught his wrist as he passed, pulling just slightly to stop him — to _make_ him listen. Peter’s entire body jerked as he turned, eyes widening and a gasp catching in his throat.

Under his touch, Tony felt each goosebump flare on Peter’s arm and he let go as quickly as he’d grabbed him, the words he’d intended to say dying on his lips.

_I’m sorry. Look at me and tell me you heard that. I’m sorry._

Peter drew back quickly, relaxing slightly when he was safely out of Tony’s reach.

“I’m going to bed,” Peter declared and blew out the lantern at the door, leaving Tony to stand in the darkness of the still room. There was no moonlight coming in through the windows, meaning he had to pace cautiously back toward the solar where the hearth was lit. He could hear now that it was raining outside, and wondered what colour it was.

He reached the still room doorway just as Peter disappeared into the bedroom on the other side of the solar.

Tony leaned in the doorway and pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowing his sigh. Then he walked into the solar to light a candle and carried it back into the still room. With the broom from the corner of the room, he swept up any of the tiny fragments of glass left on the floor; he didn’t want Peter to forget in the morning and cut himself.

He finished, put the broom back, and then bent down to sweep a cautionary hand over the floor. Satisfied, Tony stood up and grabbed his candle to leave the room.

He paused in the doorway, looking back at the neat space and empty hearth, the chests and bottles and books which occupied so much of the prince’s time. Maybe — once they had figured out this mystery with Benjamin, once Peter had more time to adjust to his new life — Tony could ask Bruce about these things, could learn something so he could talk to Peter about it.

That might be nice, he thought as he shut the still room door behind him. To talk about something the prince cared about over tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really all two steps forward one step back with this man, isn't it????? Thanks for reading everyone, I know this was a long one but I hope the energy kept up pretty well.  
> As always thanks to my stupendous beta reader Silver Lurker!! I'll see you all next Thursday (with a special surprise 👀)  
> Have a good one  
> Grace
> 
> (PS. Americans who can: please vote!)


	16. Chestnut Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony isn't the only one increasingly concerned about Peter's well-being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 16 Warnings: Some non-explicit discussion and mention of sex and sexual acts.

Sometimes, Quentin knew that he was a bad person.

The night of King Anthony’s wedding wasn’t the first time the thought crossed his mind. It had been improper, for example, to lie to the king about Bradley Davis’ fate, to ask Prince Peter not to treat General Rhodes if it would endanger him, to tell the boy the truth about his uncle. But then on top of all of that, Quentin had to go and sit in the rain with Peter and touch his arm, tell him he was brave and deserved someone who loved him.

It had been all but impossible to not kiss Peter in the darkness, to not hold his face and pull him closer on the bench, knock those flowers from his hand and guide his fingers —

“It’s a _party,_ Quen, what are you thinkin’ so hard about?”

Quentin smiled when he felt Victoria’s nails on the back of his neck and tilted his head toward her. Her other arm was full with a tray of empty wine goblets. There was hardly anyone left in the banquet hall now — one stray couple whispering and leaning into one another, and a sleeping drunk man being sharply prodded awake by Mistress Everhart.

“Just thinking about you,” Quentin grinned and caught her hand as she pulled away from him, “When will you be done?”

Victoria laughed but failed to hide her blush, “Believe it or not there’s quite a bit of cleanup after a wedding.” She stepped out of his reach with a wink, “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to help out?”

Quentin snorted and called after her, “I didn’t fight ten wars to wash dishes!” He kept his voice friendly and Victoria was smiling when she flipped him off. Then she yelped when Everhart breezed past her with a yank on her hair and a hissed reprimand. Quentin gave an apologetic shrug as Victoria’s shoulders slumped and she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Later that night, with his face between her legs to ‘make it up to her’, Quentin thought about Ferrum’s king and new prince consort, and dimly wondered if they’d managed to have a more satisfying night than him.

* * *

But even if it was wrong, _dangerous_ even, considering the boy was married to his king, Quentin couldn’t help but seek Peter out. He told himself it was because they were friends now, and Peter might feel hurt if Quentin were to stop seeing him — the kid had so few people he could talk to, after all.

Quentin had known about Bradley Davis’ arrest and trial, had prepared himself to comfort Peter if the prince needed it. He had even tried to come up with something kind to say that wouldn’t endanger his position as a knight or his loyalty to the king — Peter could openly hate King Anthony all he wanted, but the same couldn’t be said for almost anyone else.

But then, instead of submitting Davis to a grisly punishment, Peter stood up in front of the courtroom — in front of the _King —_ and demanded a mistrial.

He won, too.

So Quentin found himself at the library that evening unable to comfort tears of grief, and in turn not knowing quite what to say to the boy laced with resentment and exhaustion.

He didn’t have anything to be sorry for personally, none of this was _his_ fault, but Quentin still said, “I wanted to apologise for today. That was … with Davis. That was really hard on you.”

Peter’s lip curled when he glared daggers out the window and said sharply, “You’re really not the one who should be apologising.”

And Quentin supposed that was true. He shouldn’t be apologising and probably shouldn’t be sitting here alone with his king’s husband — but then, Banner did it too.

Nonetheless, Quentin was _sure_ that Banner would never wind up in the gardens yanking Peter into his arms on the ground because of a _squirrel_.

“Sorry!” They both stuttered and flew apart, a rosy blush slithering up Peter’s neck as he babbled, “Right, I’m going to… I’ll be turning in.”

Quentin nodded too urgently and bowed his head, “Well, goodnight, My Prince.”

His eyes lingered while Peter hurried away, gaze tracing the dip in the prince’s back and the fill of his shoulder blades.

Quentin turned away with a shake of his head; he couldn’t get too distracted. The evening breeze rustled the garden again, drawing Quentin’s eyes to the plants which had stolen Peter’s attention.

_Some of them are a mixed benediction._

But which ones?

The sunset was annoyingly bright tonight, the same vivid colour of a carrot — with all the accompanying wrinkles in the shape of wispy clouds. It made the gardens feel washed out, and without Peter there really wasn’t anything to hold Quentin’s interest, so he went back to the library.

The library was public to the castle staff. But Quentin still felt like he was trespassing when he lit a lantern and climbed up to the loft on the second floor. It was dull being there without Peter, and it felt a bit like an intrusion to sit on the bench at the window and to flip through the prince’s box of medicinal notes. He wasn’t sure that there was a connection to anything Peter chose to hang on to, perhaps just things he found interesting.

There were a few new pages this time, about _hemlock_. Quentin thought he recognised the drawing as one of the plants in the garden, but couldn’t say for sure. He liked the slope of Peter’s handwriting, the words hunched together and lines precise.

_Hemlock: Muscular paralysis and possible death in overdosage. Soothes cough. Do_ _not_ _give to pregnant women, nursing mothers, or children. Less potent in hot water._

Then the number _4_ crossed out and replaced with _6_ and then _12_ — which was also scribbled over. There were dots of ink on the page next to the numbers, where Peter had probably tapped the quill in thought.

Quentin hummed. Hemlock was _dangerous_ , he was certain of that. But, Peter had identified the dangers of a high dosage, had written the risk to children. Quentin hadn’t known it could help a cough, he’d only ever known it to hurt.

Quentin picked up one of the quills Peter kept and grabbed a book off a bottom shelf, flipping open the back cover. He sat back and, with an eye on Peter’s own notes, scratched out _Hemlock: Muscular paralysis_ / _cough. Do not give to women or children. Less effective exposed to heat._

He copied out a few more of the prince’s newest additions, tore the page he’d been writing on from the book, and then put everything away. It didn’t really matter, he supposed, what Peter was studying or filling idle time with. But it might give them something more to talk about, if Quentin could claim to follow along with Peter’s work.

Downstairs, the library door opened and Quentin turned away from the window, grabbing his lantern and walking briskly to the steps. He was halfway down when the front door closed behind Banner, who scowled at him.

He marched forward so they were face to face by the time Quentin reached the bottom of the steps, “What are you doing here, Beck?”

“What, knights aren’t allowed to read?” Quentin fixed a smile on his lips but Banner, as usual, didn’t seem inclined to joke around.

“I mean _up there_ ,” Banner jerked his chin toward the loft. “What’s up in Peter’s things that has you so interested?”

 _Right to the point, then_. Quentin fought down the sneer curling on his lips. Banner had never been calculated, never been _subtle_. It was one of his worst shortcomings, in Quentin’s opinion.

“The prince’s belongings are his, it’s not my place to be interested in such things.” Quentin shrugged, he stepped aside to clear the path to the steps for Banner, “You can rifle through them all you want, but I think the prince would be terribly hurt.”

Banner’s jaw tightened visibly and a thin purple vein bulged on his forehead. Quentin added with a quick step toward the doors, “I promise I was just looking through some of Arachne’s history… Victoria’s pestering me for a gift, so I thought, a local flower maybe. You don’t happen to have any ideas?”

Banner snorted, “Your girl, right… Tell me, how’s she feeling about all the time you spend with the Prince?”

“Why should she care who I’m friends with?”

“Is that what the Prince Consort is to you? A _friend_?” Banner turned away, “You need to be careful, Beck. I don’t care how you waste your life, but if it comes back to hurt Peter —”

“I’m hardly the friend most likely to hurt him.”

Banner swore under his breath and shook his head, a sharp laugh cutting the air, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Look, I’m sorry if you’re having a bad day.” Quentin tried to make his voice sound cordial again, but Banner had really soured his mood, “Just let me know if you think of something nice for Victoria.”

He had to sidle around Banner before leaving the library, feeling frustrated not just with the king’s friend but with himself. His relationship with Peter was’t seen as inappropriate, was it? He wasn’t risking anything by it, they were just friends. Surely if people were talking, then Victoria would have confronted him on it. Yes, that would make it clear he had crossed some kind of line. If Victoria brought it up.

* * *

“I don’t know, Sir Quentin. Hemlock can be used for lots of things. It can help with cough, with pain… some of the Arachnean books say it helps _soothe the mind_ — whatever that means.”

Quentin wrinkled his nose. William Riva stood on the other side of a desk in the infirmary. He was filling out an inventory chart, but Quentin was pretty sure he was only pretending to look busy.

It had been a little over two weeks since Davis’ trial. Quentin had been bringing snippets of Peter’s notes to Riva whenever he found the time.

The Prince added to his materials occasionally, or revised what he’d been working on. This morning had given Quentin plenty of time to look through the box in the library; he’d found the Brant girl at the front gate before dawn begging to see Peter. The extra time was welcome. Come late morning, he’d had almost everything of importance copied out, all of Peter’s things tucked back where they belonged, and still time to visit Riva before lunch.

Quentin mulled over what Riva had said. Peter’s notes repeatedly came back to hemlock, to both beneficial and dangerous properties about it. “Soothe the mind… like if someone was nervous?”

“Stressed, anxious, sure.” Riva looked up at him with raised eyebrows. The doctor was a little man who spent a lot of time rubbing his eyes and looking like he didn’t want to talk to anyone. His moustache twitched even when his lips weren’t moving, which always unnerved Quentin a bit.

“What about everything else?” Quentin asked.

“Sir, all due respect but you’ve been bringing me two pages at a time of incomprehensible notes. I simply don’t know. Where are these coming from, what are they for?”

“This is confidential,” Quentin said easily, “But a very serious threat. You shouldn’t talk to anyone about this unless it’s me, General Rhodes, or the King himself... This may be important, William. Could this stuff be combined to make something?”

The mention of Rhodes and King Anthony garnered a bit more attention from Riva, which Quentin found irritating. Why shouldn’t his own inquiry be taken as seriously?

“I’ll have to think about it. If you threw all of this into one cup? No, you’re just making a mess. But maybe some things.” He reached for the paper Quentin was holding, “I don’t suppose I could hang on to —”

“General’s orders,” Quentin pulled his copy of Peter’s notes out of reach, “Sorry.”

Riva shook his head, “Fine, I’ll keep it in mind and let you know.”

“Thank you,” Quentin beamed at him and turned to the infirmary door.

“You know who might be able to help, Sir Quentin!” Quentin stopped and turned around, Riva waved a hand idly in the air, “Prince Peter is… astoundingly well-versed in medical practice for one so young, and he’s highly knowledgeable about local herbs. If you or General Rhodes were to —”

Quentin chuckled, “We picked _you_ for this. You’re the sharpest medical mind Ferrum has to offer… and anyway, king’s orders and all, on the Prince knowing about the resistance.”

“Oh, right,” Riva nodded, he straightened his shirt and preened a little at Quentin’s praise. “Well, I’ll let you know as soon as I come up with anything.”

Quentin crossed quickly back to the desk. He reached out to grab Riva’s shoulder, so the man had to look up and into his eyes. For a moment he looked scared, but Quentin just leaned down so they were at eye level and fixed a big smile on the man, “We appreciate it, William. Bring anything straight to me, okay? General Rhodes is grateful for your expertise and your… discretion,” he tilted his head a bit to the right and Riva nodded eagerly.

“Of course, Sir, of course. I completely understand. You can count on me.” He was the slightest bit breathless. Quentin guessed that made sense, thinking on it as he left the infirmary and made his way down the hall. Not a lot of people went around showering the snivelling Ferrumean doctor in praise.

Certainly not when there were medical minds like Peter’s, accompanied by the Prince’s charming smile and shy laugh — a soft blush dusting defined cheekbones and creeping up to eyes dark like chestnut honey...

Quentin sighed and shook his head. He had to stop thinking things like that.

No, he needed to focus on what mattered. Which meant understanding what Peter was working on. Riva kept saying that the plants Peter had identified could be used to aid sleep, aid stress. That made sense, with all the upheaval in his life the Prince was bound to feel anxious. So perhaps he was just trying to treat his own symptoms.

It was certainly a relief, Quentin had to admit. Initially, Riva kept saying the boy’s notes included poisonous ingredients. Quentin couldn’t help but worry that maybe, _maybe_ , the kid was going to hurt himself. It was half the reason he’d helped the Brant girl, talking to a friend might help spark a little life in the kid again.

But, treating sleep and stress made more sense. Hell, everyone could stand to get better sleep — maybe Quentin would ask Peter about it next time he got the chance.

“Quen, Quen!” Quentin turned around, grinning as Victoria fluttered down the hall. Her brown hair was pinned up and she lifted onto her toes to kiss his cheek, bangs fluttering out of place and making his nose twitch.

“Isn’t this a treat,” she giggled, looping her arm through his and guiding him down the hall, “I feel like I hardly see you some days!” She nodded toward the papers in his hand, “What’re you working on?”

“A project for General Rhodes,” he said quickly, tucking the notes into his vest pocket.

“Oh, Quen!” Victoria stopped and faced him more fully, taking both his hands in hers, “Oh tell me he’s not sending you back out, I was so scared last time!”

“No, love, no,” Quentin lifted a hand to caress her cheek and kissed her forehead, “this is all just… paperwork,” he promised, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Victoria blushed and took half a step closer to him, “Good,” she murmured, “I just don’t — we were really lucky last time, Quen. The scout said _everyone_ was killed, you know Maya’s —”

“I know, hey, hush. I’m right here, aren’t I?” Quentin wrapped his arms around her and pressed her face to his chest, “I’m right here, I came back.” He laughed and buried his lips in her hair, “You’re going to have to try a lot harder to get rid of me.”

Victoria sniffled and nodded, Quentin’s shoulders slumped a little in relief. He didn’t like thinking about his last battle against the resistance, the mud and scarlet rain in the days before the wedding — that had been when the prince was ill. He had been the only soldier to return, and very nearly hadn’t.

That had been a bleak realisation, that he was the only Ferrumean left on a sloping plain slick with blood and red rainwater.

Truth be told, Quentin thought his friendship with Peter might be half the reason Rhodes was keeping him home. Which was fine by him, the castle and clerical work was a huge improvement on the frigid walk home, hiding from resistance fighters nearly half the night.

There wasn’t much in Quentin’s life worthy of that level of sacrifice. But if he thought about Peter, about the relief on his face when they could finally tell him the fighting was over — _yes, they’d lied. But now it was really done. Now they could_ really _move on._ — that was what helped Quentin get home.

“God, I’m getting choked up over _nothing_ ,” Victoria giggled when she pulled away, “I’m sorry, Quen. Walk with me? Oh, I heard the most _magical_ thing last night about Arachne! They say the rains do something to the rocks in the mountains, creating all these beautiful stones and…”

Quentin let her take his hand and lead him down the hall, chattering away about things she didn’t really understand. He hummed his agreement when she suggested they take lunch together and steered him to the kitchens.

It was beneath him, but Quentin tried not to mind things like eating in the kitchen with castle servants. It was one of the only chances he got to see Victoria, and he’d quickly found out that if she felt as if she’d been talked to during the day then she was far more enthusiastic come nightfall.

The chattering in the kitchens was like the buzz of locusts, swelling and spinning between topics. Victoria seated him at the corner of a counter, a few others were eating as well but most did it standing or else in between their own tasks. Another girl grabbed Victoria’s elbow and leaned in to whisper something to her. She blushed and they both eyed Quentin with a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” He teased when she came back with two bowls of soup and bread.

“Oh everyone’s just jealous of me,” she purred, “I get you _and_ they think I have some kind of line to the Prince.”

“The Prince?” Quentin asked, taking a bite of the thick, creamy white soup. Comforting flavours of potato and sharp cheese filled his mouth and he smiled at the satisfying crunch of bacon and onion used to garnish the meal. The days were starting to feel chilly, so the hot lunch was welcome.

“‘Cause you spend so much time with him,” she said, “Now I’ve told them, Quen is _nothing_ but professional. His friendship with the prince is his business, I don’t have anything to do with it and I _certainly_ don’t ask questions that aren’t mine to ask.” She raised her voice the slightest bit to make her point, causing a brief uproar of laughter and protest in the kitchen.

The girl who’d grabbed Victoria called, “We can’t help it, Sir Beck! Just tell us something about him, he’s so sweet and quiet.”

“And terribly handsome!” Someone else called from the doorway.

A boy added, “Not sure the King agrees on that.” And the entire kitchen disintegrated into laughter.

Victoria scoffed and rolled her eyes. Half a dozen conversations splintered off and Quentin nudged her with his elbow, “What do they mean by that? About the king?”

“They’re just being immature,” Victoria muttered, dipping her bread into her soup. She smiled at him, leaning on the counter and nudging her hips out, “Just, you know, about how the King hasn’t consummated the marriage.”

Quentin choked and all but spit his soup back into his bowl. Victoria quickly had a napkin in hand and was pulling the bowl from him, placing it safely on the table before moving to help.

“Oh come on, Quen. The bedsheets tell the tale, and who changes the bedsheets?”

“God, Victoria. You shouldn’t — you shouldn’t be talking about such things,” he hissed, softening quickly when she pursed her lips at him. “I’m sorry, you’re not, I know. You said it yourself, it’s the others being immature.”

“The King loved his wife, you can’t fault him for that.”

Quentin nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Not _once_? It had been over two weeks. Victoria’s notion about King Anthony’s wife was cute and romantic, but not real. Not _ten-years-old_ real. Was the King really just not interested — and if so, how blind was he?

Quentin’s thoughts lingered on Peter’s slim hips and shy smile, long fingers working nimbly, tearing through tousled hair as he bent over tables and benches, mind sharply focused on whatever work he had at hand.

For a moment, Quentin wondered if he could bring it up with Peter — and how. After all, he must be hurting, must feel rejected or like something was wrong with him when that wasn’t the case. King Anthony was just being obstinate or —

 _Stop._ Quentin muttered under his breath and lifted a hand to wipe his eyes. He reached a hand out and put it on Victoria’s waist, pulling her closer to his side. He _had_ to stop thinking these things, he was going to run his own brain ragged and probably stumble into treason or worse.

“Quen,” he looked up when she nudged him, slowly disengaging his hold, “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, distracted.” He smiled and she gave his hand a squeeze.

“Well I’ve got to run but I’ll see you tonight? Nothing says we can’t make our own mess in the sheets,” Her cheeks flared at her own words and then she leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

When she pulled back she was biting her lip hard and her blush had traveled to her fingertips and the top of her ears. But she still smiled and winked as she waved goodbye.

“I’ll see you then!” Quentin called after her, his voice the slightest bit hoarse.

* * *

The next day, Quentin couldn’t decide whether to be excited or mortified to find himself alone in the royal quarters with Peter.

When the Prince wandered to the doorway of his little workroom mumbling something about going to the library, Quentin blurted out:

“Isn’t that the sort of thing Davis is for?”

Then he held his breath, certain Peter was going to snap at him to get out or otherwise insinuate such a suggestion was inappropriate.

But Peter sent Davis away, and it was just them. Quentin watched the Prince cautiously, not wanting to spook him — he tended to be pretty fragile — and wondering if he was the only one who felt the current of energy in the room.

It _couldn’t_ just be him, with the way Peter was shifting on his feet and avoiding eye contact. He must feel it too, the electricity that was sparking, the strain in their silence. And hell, if the kid hadn’t gotten off in two months — maybe even since the war started — then Quentin couldn’t blame him.

Quentin held on to the edge of the table with a vise grip to keep from doing something stupid, from making the wrong move at the wrong moment.

Peter kept staring fixedly at the shelves, clearly trying not to look in Quentin’s direction. Cautious not to surprise him, Quentin climbed to his feet and tried to close the space between them. He stopped when Peter’s shoulders started to hunch.

He struggled to keep his voice steady, friendly, “Can I help you reach something?”

“No,” Peter said breathlessly, “I was just looking… I’m thinking about teas I could make for- for Betty…”

Then, all in the space of a few moments, Peter’s face blanched and he stumbled back a step. Quentin lurched to catch him. This time when they touched he winced; Peter’s skin was clammy and slick with sweat and he gasped hoarsely on a breath of air.

But no sooner was Quentin holding onto him than the kid was babbling “I’m alright, I’m sorry. All of the scents in here,” He gulped hard, “They make me kind of dizzy sometimes...”

Quentin chuckled and helped lift him to his feet, keeping his grip firm and grounding. He wanted to explain — even in just a touch — that he could be there for Peter if he needed, could support him through anything. “No kidding. Here, let’s go sit down,” he murmured reassuringly and helped Peter out to the royal solar.

He wasn’t terribly surprised when Peter asked him to leave, as worried as he was. The kid had lost all colour and looked so flustered, Quentin supposed that — no matter what _he_ wanted — he shouldn’t be kneeling next to the Prince consort in his chambers anyway.

“Please don’t hesitate, if you need anything.” Quentin said as he stood. He longed to reach out, to touch Peter’s shoulder or run his hands through his hair. Hell, he wanted to embrace him. But instead he went to the door of the quarters.

When Peter’s face was white like that, it made his lips pinker, his eyes shine darker.

But Peter had only gotten flustered like that because they were alone together. So he must… be interested, right? Obviously he couldn’t do anything; not in his position, not so soon after his wedding. And he was so painfully shy, so respectful and compliant, that he probably wouldn’t make a move no matter how much he wanted to.

But that was okay, Quentin could be patient. He could wait for the Prince’s grief to fade, his anger and frustration to wane, for him to come to terms with his new life.

The King didn’t deserve — didn’t even _want_ — Peter. But Quentin could be there for the Prince instead; he could show the boy how to actually be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I know technically nothing 'new' happens this chapter but this was extremely fun to write and I hope was enjoyable to read too! What a guy!!!  
> So my 'surprise' for this week is that: Chapter 17 will be uploaded on Monday, we'll hear from Peter and Tony. Then next Thursday, Chapter 18 will also be Beck's perspective 👀  
> Then back to regularly scheduled Thursday programming about the King and the Prince!  
> I'll see you all on Monday! Please take it easy and take care of yourselves! I'm an absolute wreck, so one of you has to do it on my behalf. 😄 Also, idk about you guys but I have SO many thoughts about Beck right now and would be delighted to hear what you're thinking too!  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	17. Salt Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony faces a sobering, and overdue, realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: There's some crying at the end but it's nicer crying than the crying we're used to 😊

Bruce’s absence was harder than Tony had expected it to be.

Without a formal job or title, it had seemed obvious he should be the one to return to Ferrum. Not only did Tony trust him with the task, he had naively thought Bruce wouldn’t be missed very much.

But Tony quickly remembered all the things he normally entrusted to Bruce; he wrote reports, ran errands, represented the King at meetings, and, as the only one of Tony’s close friends who had held a role in Howard’s court, could explain more baffling traditions and expectations amongst the upper class. This was all to say nothing of Bruce’s role as confidante, an ear to bend at the end of the day, a patient voice in an otherwise whirlwind of new input.

Six days after Bruce left for Ferrum, Tony counted that he’d spent three nights in his office. The other three he and Peter crept carefully around one another, hardly speaking and barely exchanging glances. The only thing Tony saw of Davis was an occasional glimpse in the evening, if he hadn’t yet gone home when Tony retired for the night.

So, everything was quiet. But it was certainly not peaceful.

“Milord?”

“Hmm?”

Tony raised his head, shoulders unwinding slowly from the strenuous position bent over his desk.

The sun was nearly set. Jarvis sat in a chair pulled up just next to the desk, reviewing the day and filling out Tony’s agenda for the evening. Tony reached for the cup of water at his right hand. He hadn’t decided yet whether he was going to return to the royal quarters tonight or not.

Jarvis pursed his lips and said — his tone implying he was repeating himself — “I said perhaps the Prince Consort should reply to correspondence tomorrow. Given you have the meeting with General Rhodes.”

Tony’s brow furrowed at the suggestion. Bleary and unfocused from lack of sleep, he asked, “Why Peter?”

“Well, he can’t meet with the General. You’ve made it very clear the Prince should not hear about the Arachnean rebels,” Jarvis answered easily, “I can remove any such communiques for you to handle yourself and give the rest to him.”

“But Peter won’t —” Tony’s voice wavered and he dragged a hand through his hair, sitting back with a huff. As tempting as it was to lessen his workload, he sighed, “Peter won’t know what to do with all of it.”

“He’ll do just fine, I’ll be nearby if he has questions about ongoing negotiations and to apprise him of any information needed. You don’t have him busy with something else, do you?”

“No, I —” Tony stopped his voice from dipping into a growl. He took a deep breath before continuing, “He was trained in medicine and law, he was Benjamin’s _nephew_ not his heir. I’m just not sure we can throw him neck-deep into royal paperwork all in one day.”

Tony wished someone had been there to say the same for him, in the days after Howard’s death.

Jarvis held a hand up and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and Tony made a point to be glaring at him when they opened again.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. But, the Prince Consort _was_ heir to Arachne. I brought it up when we first secured the castle, King Benjamin had files detailing that Peter _must_ inherit the throne. It couldn’t be changed, not even if Benjamin sired a child himself.”

Peter had been heir apparent? Over Benjamin’s own child? An heir presumptive, of course. A regent, even, if Benjamin’s child was too young when the king passed. But why would Benjamin strike his own issue from the royal line?

“When was it written?” Tony asked. It must have been over the summer, a contingency of sorts as the war turned in Ferrum’s favour.

“Well, I tucked most of those things away. Give me a moment.” Jarvis stood up and crossed the office, disappearing into the drawing room. He emerged a few minutes later, licking his thumb and flicking through a stack of papers with curling edges.

“The Prince Consort was six,” Jarvis hummed. He walked straight to Tony’s desk and laid out three papers side by side, “See? Here: _Peter Parker shall be sole heir apparent and herein bear the title Crown Prince…_ it can only be undone by the Prince’s death or mental incapacity — the criteria for which are _very_ specific. And then here, it gives the subjects he was to study, the training he underwent — none of which included his medical studies, which I believe were voluntary — and —”

“What’s this?” Tony pointed to a line near the top of the document, “ _And, upon coronation at the age of twenty-five, will be made privy to those confidential affairs the King keeps._ What does that mean?”

“I’ve wondered the same,” Jarvis shrugged, “I thought it might be a sort of jargon. You know, _when he becomes king he does the king’s job_ — that sort of thing.”

Tony mumbled his agreement, but he had his doubts. Given that they were still looking for a secret set of account books or financial records, that seemed like the sort of thing that might be labeled _those confidential affairs the King keeps_. He stared at the pages in front of him: at the rigorous education Peter had undertaken, the detailed measures for _mental incapacity_ , the potential secrets meant to be passed between kings _._ All signed when Peter was six years old.

Twelve years. Peter had been preparing to be king when Tony had still been hammering steel and hoarding clean water. Peter had learned statecraft, foreign affairs, and law through _study_ , not just exposure. Then, even with the weight of the crown ahead of him, he had invested his spare time into learning how to help people.

King Benjamin had done everything in his power to preserve Peter’s name, education, and happiness. He had practically treated the boy like —

Tony shuffled the papers back in order, handing them to Jarvis. “Well, that’s enough time on that. Yes, I’ll ask Peter tonight if he can take over some of my duties tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir.” Jarvis added a note to the agenda book and flipped it shut, passing it across the desk to Tony. “That is the last matter for this evening. I will see you in the morning.”

Tony yawned and cast his gaze around the office after Jarvis left. He didn’t know whether he was really _surprised_ anymore to learn these things about Peter — most of it was a confirmation rather than a revelation. But it _was_ increasingly frustrating; the least the boy could do was have some sort of obvious flaw, a vice. _Something_ to support the petulant, spoiled image Tony had been fed when they first invaded.

But… who had suggested as much to him? He couldn’t remember now, amidst staggered memories of battles and strategy meetings. Perhaps it was just a matter of rumour, the byproduct of being part of an invading army: Ferrum’s soldiers grew apt to insult their enemies. That made sense. And they _had_ been told Peter was sheltering at home.

Tony shook his head and stood up with a sigh. He couldn’t change what had already happened, couldn’t go back. But he could try more with Peter, could ask about being heir, about helping with Arachnean affairs.

He made his way back to the royal quarters at a slow pace, ruminating on what he wanted to say and how he should say it. For a moment, when he stepped into the empty solar with light pouring out of the still room, Tony was struck with a sense of déjà vu. But Bruce wasn’t beside him and he couldn’t hear anything coming from the still room, no laughter nor the scrape of moving furniture.

Not wanting to tempt himself to eavesdrop again, Tony walked straight to the still room and knocked before looking inside. Peter was squatting at a windowsill, poking around in a row of small pots filled with moist dirt. He turned at the knock and straightened to his feet immediately upon seeing Tony.

“Hey — hello,” Peter cleared his throat, “Or, good evening.”

“Good evening,” Tony smiled as gently as he could, but felt it didn’t do much to ease the tension in the room. He inclined his head toward the windowsill, “What are you working on?”

“I’m trying to revive May’s lemon tree — or, re _grow_ it, I guess.” Peter picked up two of the cups and carried them to the table. Tony slowly stepped into the room, standing opposite him. It was a peculiar amount of space dividing them, but the table helped and Peter pushed one of the cups further toward Tony. “There, look,” the prince dipped a finger into the dirt and dusted some of it away, revealing two thin green sprouts.

“Oh,” Tony thought about the spiky plant that stood by the window when they’d first opened the still room. “Lemons are rare in Ferrum,” he said eventually, searching for _something_ to offer to the conversation.

“They’re rare here, too.” Peter said, “The original seed came from a wedding present — from my mother to my aunt.” Tony nodded, then was surprised when Peter kept talking, “I pulled some seeds from a few that were moulding and planted them…” He trailed off, perhaps just as surprised as Tony at how much he’d said.

There was a slightly uncomfortable pause then. Maybe Peter was thinking about a region _known_ for lemons and other citrus fruits, but he didn’t bring it up. Which was fine with Tony, because the only place _he_ could think of was Kunira.

Tony seized on the mention of the Parker family, “Peter, I wanted to ask you about something, some files that your uncle kept.” He tilted his head back toward the solar and Peter nodded, whisking the lemon seedlings back to the windowsill and following Tony out of the still room. They sat down in their respective chairs at the hearth and Peter leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed intently on Tony.

Tony swallowed and looked down at his lap. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t for Peter to be so immediately ready to listen. To be so focused, but, then, why shouldn’t he be? His entire life had been about learning to inherit his uncle’s affairs, so he _should_ be prepared and motivated as soon as they were brought up. In many ways, he was more qualified than Tony was to handle most of his daily routine.

“Jarvis and I,” Tony reached distractedly to rub his chest, feeling a flush of heat when Peter’s eyes tracked the movement. “Hell, _I_ have some questions about… a few things, I suppose. But to start with, why did your uncle decree you were to be heir apparent? Regardless of his own children, I mean.”

A small, wan smile crept onto Peter’s lips and, for a moment, his gaze grew distant. Although no tears welled in his eyes, his voice was a bit rough when he spoke.

“There were a few reasons for it. Publicly, he always felt like it created a sense of stability for the country. The people knew who their next king would be, I could prepare from an early age, there was no fear of a blood feud if May managed to have a child, things like that.”

Peter’s voice grew a bit tighter and he shifted his weight in the chair, “But more than that… Uncle Ben always said it was — it was like _a love letter_ , he said. My father was bedridden at the time, had been ever since my mother passed that spring. Ben wanted to show him, to reassure him, that I was going to be taken care of. That I would still have… that I still _had_ a family who…”

_Who would stop at nothing for him. Who would move heaven and Earth for him. Who would value him the same as their own child._

Kings and queens the world over had dispatched nieces, nephews, and distant cousins for their mere existence, for an inkling of claim to a throne, whether they wanted it or not. But King Benjamin, in his brother’s final days, had assured Richard that no such fate would befall his son, that Peter would be cared for to the absolute best of his ability.

 _Not me, sir, but my_ nephew. _Please, spare Peter._

_Please, if you can do nothing else, then please… marry him._

But Tony… his hand had been forced, hadn’t it? He _couldn’t_ have spared Benjamin. He _couldn’t_ have accepted any of those deals offered at the negotiating table.

Tony realised suddenly that he was rubbing circles on his chest again and he stopped.

After a while, Peter went on. “I used to think that, if they had a kid of their own, I could always abdicate. Or, as I got older, it would make sense for me to name that child my heir, give the throne to them when they turned twenty-five.”

“Right, that’s another thing I don’t understand. Why twenty-five? Why weren’t you just heir until — well, why wouldn’t _an_ heir just wait for the reigning king to pass?”

“Well, then the ruler gets to retire. A new king or queen takes their place as they mature… the former monarch is able to advise them, to meet with them while they’re both of sound mind and body… it helped with stability.”

It all made sense, it was all practical and effective. The Parker family had ruled their country thoughtfully for generations, sought out happiness for their subjects and established a reliable and steadfast system.

Peter added after a moment, “It didn’t always work. I mean — if someone needed to take the throne when they were younger, they did. My great-grandmother, she was crowned when she was twenty-two. Or- or _I_ would have — well…”

Not wanting to bring up the summer, or anything related, Tony jumped in, “I’m asking all this, because I wondered if you would be able to help with some of my work. I have a busy schedule tomorrow and, with Bruce gone, Jarvis suggested you would be able to help with some…” Tony waved his hand in the air, “Correspondence. Paperwork, writing letters. That sort of—” He stopped to clear his throat, “That sort of thing.”

“Oh, I— y-yeah, I-I’d be happy to.” Peter lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck and his eyes flickered uncertainly between Tony and the floor.

“Well, good.” Tony exhaled, “Good, I’ll tell Jarvis and he’ll help with anything you need.” He settled back in his chair, feeling the weight of the day and the conversation lifting from his shoulders. He smiled at Peter, but the boy looked more like he was wincing when he smiled back.

Tony was half-hoping that Peter might offer to make tea, but didn’t want to be the one to ask for it. Peter’s gaze traveled to the end table, but he didn’t have a book ready today to open.

Their silence was beginning to feel more pronounced, the relief of their agreement disintegrating in the wake of their predicament, their arguments, their history and future.

Desperate to stop what Tony was sure would become a _very_ insistent-and-distracting ringing in his ears, he blurted out, “How’s Betty?”

“Uhh, she’s good.” Peter sat up in the chair and clasped his hands. His fingers started to move as if he was going to pick at his nail or rub, but then he stopped. His eyes went to the fire and he lifted his hand to scratch under his chin, “I saw her this morning. She hasn’t been fainting so much, but I-I think the baby might be small. I suggested some diet changes…”

As Tony continued to watch, something in Peter relaxed. His back loosened and the ghost of a smile twitched on his lips, his gaze softened and his nose wrinkled when he laughed, “She’s craving a lot of tomatoes but, it’s important for her to eat meat or eggs alongside them…” Peter shrugged and directed another strained, thin smile at Tony, “Sorry, so, she’s good. She gave me one of Ned’s paintings today.”

“Oh, he was a painter?”

Peter’s head bobbed, and he still wasn’t looking _at_ Tony, but he kept talking, which was surprising enough. “Yeah, in his free time. Well, mostly he sketched because it was easier and cheaper but — one second,” Peter stood up and crossed the bedroom, disappearing inside.

Tony twisted in his chair to watch him go, wondering what led to Peter speaking so much and so readily tonight. Maybe it was just making up for the week they hadn’t spoken, or maybe the conversation about helping tomorrow had really enthused him.

Or, maybe he was starting to reconcile all of this. Maybe he was beginning to adjust to the life ahead of him. Maybe he was healing, if just a little.

Peter returned with a rectangular canvas in his hands, the tall side running the length of his torso. He stopped next to Tony’s chair and shifted so the painting was supported on the king’s knees. Tony lifted a hand to support the back of the canvas while Peter continued to hold the other side.

Tony looked down at the painting and took in the image of stone cliffs on the ocean. He reached for one of the candles on the end table and held it up to better make out the work of art.

The sun was setting, throwing pale light across the clear ocean. Embedded in the water and making up a rocky beach were individually painted stones, each one coloured burgundy or auburn or mahogany. Dazzling flashes of fish and tendrils of seaweed peeked out between the rocks in the water; sharp cliffs rose on either side of the canvas, closing the space in. Making it something private.

Tony’s gaze was drawn to a single spot of white amongst the darker colours, a scallop shell just off-center in the painting.

“This is beautiful,” he said finally, not pulling his eyes from the art. “The colours are…” He trailed off, not knowing what he wanted to say. The colours were dark but still _vibrant_ in a way he wasn’t familiar with, there was something bright and real about them. Stone and water were cold things yet the painting struck him as warm, and there was something protective about the cliffs on the inlet, even though the water stretched to open ocean.

“Arachne is known for its paint colours,” Peter said softly and Tony nodded, that sounded familiar. At one time, he had scoffed at that; had written it off as a superficial luxury commodity. Now, seeing the colours at work left him struggling for the right thing to say, searching for descriptions he didn’t know, some way to express what this meant.

Finally Tony asked, “Is this Arachne?”

“The northern coast,” Peter said, lifting the painting from Tony’s lap and carrying it back to his own chair. He set the artwork down facing away from Tony, who was itching to open his agenda and make a note to get it framed before he forgot. But he also didn’t want to risk pulling his attention from Peter.

“We used to go at the end of the summer,” Peter said, “Ned and Michelle and I. Just for a night or two. I think that’s why he chose those — reds and oranges and browns. Autumn colours in the last warm days of the year. We’d just… swim, talk, sleep on the dunes by the beach…” Tony detected the hint of emotion in Peter’s voice, but didn’t want to interrupt him.

“Ned painted that one last summer…” Peter said, and Tony thought he knew what the prince was thinking. That a year ago, he could never have anticipated what his life would be like now.

As the thoughts built in Peter’s mind, he continued to speak. Tony found his right hand tightening on his armrest, but he held himself still. Peter’s gaze settled on the fire as his memories poured out, unbidden from one of them and unavoidable for the other.

* * *

_“I’m not having any luck,” Ned announced, rolling onto his back and scattering the rest of his clams across the rocks._

_“Can’t win every year,” MJ shrugged. She was lying on her stomach next to Peter, close enough that their shoulders were touching. She succeeded in cracking open her own shell and peered inside, shrugging when there were no pearls to be found._

_“One of us should probably start a fire if we’re gonna cook them,” Peter said, but he didn’t move. With his arms folded and chin resting on the back of his hands, he smiled lazily out at the water, basking in the warmth of the setting sun on his back._

_“Cooking’s for cowards,” MJ announced and lifted the mollusc shell to her lips, slurping loudly._

_“That’s disgusting,” Peter shifted his weight to bump against her._

_“It’s delicious!” She said with her mouth full and then swallowed. On Peter’s left, Ned was wading back into the ocean. Once the water reached his waist he flopped onto his back, gazing up at the burnished colours of the sunset surrounding them._

_“Careful!” MJ shouted out to the water, “If you start to drown, Peter will have to kiss you to make it better!”_

_“It’s not kissing!” Peter grumbled at the same time that Ned yelled:_

_“Maybe that’s what I’m hoping for!”_

_That made MJ laugh and she sat up a bit, balancing on her knees. Peter watched the stones on the beach dig into her legs, thinking about the imprints left behind on all of them, the traces of salt and ash which always clung to them for days after returning home._

_“I’m serious,” Peter rolled onto his back, balancing on his elbows. He reached a hand out to thread his finger with MJ’s, “It can save lives. It’s just breathing_ for _someone else.”_

_“You say that like breathing isn’t one of the most basic parts of living,” MJ grinned, “Come on, Peter, you have to beat their heart for them too!”_

_“Sometimes it works,” he chuckled, “Sometimes, if it’s done right and if they’re lucky, people practically come back from the dead.”_

_MJ hummed her agreement and then her hips shifted. Peter started to scramble away, thought maybe he could wriggle into the water and swim, but he wasn’t sure why he bothered. When she jumped on him, he managed to roll once so he was on top. But MJ just grabbed his thighs and rolled again, landing on top with most of her weight pressing his legs down, her hands pinning his arms next to his head._

_“Come on, that wasn’t fair!” Peter pouted._

_“Well your enemies aren’t gonna make it fair,” MJ laughed. “What do you do now?”_

_“Umm…” Peter shifted his arms unsuccessfully and briefly tried to buck his hips, but she barely moved. Finally he shrugged, “I guess I politely ask you to get off of me so I can make us dinner.”_

_MJ shook her head, pursing her lips a bit. Her grip on his wrists tightened, “Come on Peter, I’m serious. What do you do? I might not always be there to protect you.”_

_From the middle of the water, Ned’s voice carried to them, “MJ, I’m pretty sure if_ you’re _not there, then Peter got killed a long time ago!”_

_A pause and then, “No offence, Peter!”_

_Peter just shrugged up at her, “He’s right. So, might as well get off of me.”_

_“Hey,” Her voice was lower, softer. Peter dropped his gaze and immediately she added, “My Prince, look at me.”_

_Hesitantly, Peter lifted his eyes to meet hers. “You know what to do, Peter.”_

_Peter sighed, and thought maybe if he just went limp then she would give up. But she was stubborn enough that they might end up here all night._

_She was patient, watching him, waiting. He rehearsed what he wanted to do a few times in his head. His muscles twitched a bit through each movement, MJ smirked the slightest bit and he caught an imperceptible nod._

_With a grunt, Peter bent his legs at the knees and grounded his pelvis before he thrust his right hip upward. Michelle rocked to the side and she released one of his wrists to catch her balance, but Peter also got the sense that she did it for the sake of the exercise. Immediately, he threw his palm up, grabbing her shoulder and yanking down to pull himself up._

_Once he was sitting up more, Peter reached around to grab MJ’s knee. She recoiled and the shift let him free his right leg. Peter rolled hard. He flipped MJ onto her back, mimed a sharp blow to her face, and untangled himself, sprinting off a few feet to create some distance between them._

_He heard Ned clapping in the water, and MJ calling “Come back, Peter!” And his heartbeat began to settle._

_Peter rounded a circle and jogged back to MJ, holding his hand out to help her stand._

_“That was good,” she grinned, putting both hands on his shoulder and leaning against him._

_“You let me throw you,” He said and she nodded slowly._

_“Yeah, but I also taught you what to do. I’ll win the next round.”_

_“The next —?”_

_“Race you!” Peter yelped when his legs flew out from under him and MJ sprinted past, making her way along the beach and up the sharp slope to the top of the cliff._

_Peter scrambled to his feet and sprinted after her, feet sliding on wet stones and then catching on grass and dirt as they ran uphill._

_Legs flying, heartbeat bursting, arms swinging, laughter ringing, Peter ran past her and somersaulted off the cliff into the deep blue below._

_He landed with a splash in the water, submerged in salt and sea and sun._

* * *

Peter trailed off slowly, his whole body was turned away from Tony and toward the fire. Tears were building in his eyes, creating creases and lines in his clear brown irises, shiny now like a wood varnish.

Tony shifted in his seat; grief welled up around them and his chest stung and felt hot where the brand was. Despite the joy in Peter’s story and the heat of the fire, the solar suddenly felt dark and cold. Peter’s grip on the armrest was tight as he pushed himself to stand, his gaze unfocused when he tilted his chin in Tony’s direction.

“I’m — I’m going to bed.” The prince rasped and lurched on unsteady feet to the bedroom.

Tony turned to watch the door close behind him. A seed of uncertainty was back, there was a frustrating familiarity to the doubt and sadness in the room, the roiling memory of _I’m going to bed_ and the sight of Peter disappearing behind a closed door.

But what was Tony supposed to do about it? He couldn’t change anything. He couldn’t bring the boy’s friends back; he doubted Peter would appreciate a trip to the coast with _him_.

He couldn’t fix this, couldn’t give Peter peace, couldn’t do anything about —

Tony gritted his teeth and closed his eyes when he heard a soft gasp from the bedroom.

_Don’t move._

Then the creak of the bed and a thump. And another sound, a sob muffled by the closed door and — Tony suspected — Peter’s own hand over his mouth.

_Just let him —_

But then, like a dam broken, Peter began to cry in earnest. Desperate, wracked sobs filtered out to the solar as the Prince struggled to breathe past the tears he seemed to be drowning in.

Tony climbed slowly to his feet and approached the bedroom door on shaking legs. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, wondering what to do or say. Peter wasn’t going to _want_ to talk to him, to look at him, to face him. But just leaving the kid to cry by himself felt worse.

But maybe, with how hard Peter was crying, they wouldn’t have to actually talk.

Tony tried to make the doorknob clicking and the door opening as loud as possible, not wanting to startle him. But Peter didn’t react. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Tony, having only managed to remove his shirt before the tears overwhelmed him.

Peter’s arms were wrapped around his middle, looking like he was trying to hold himself together, as if he was afraid he was going to shatter into a million pieces. His nails dug harsh pink lines into his skin and his head was bowed, torso rocking very slightly as sob after sob yanked itself through his body.

Tony almost turned around.

It felt a little bit like he _shouldn’t_ be seeing Peter like this. The kid had excused himself to go to bed, had wanted to be alone, had —

Tony found himself crossing the room, he went to his own closet and pulled a black cloak from one of the pegs inside. It was his oldest, a gift from Pepper on their wedding day. The fabric was soft and heavy; it would keep the wearer warm and, in this case, might help them to feel more secure.

Tony turned to approach Peter, walking around the bed with his heart pounding, still not sure what he was going to do or say. He reached out to put his hand gently on the prince’s left shoulder when he reached him, giving a reassuring squeeze when the boy didn’t pull away.

Peter didn’t flinch, didn’t jerk or swear. Blearily, he garbled out something that sounded a bit like “I’m sorry!” But his voice was thick and clouded.

“No, don’t… it’s okay,” Tony murmured and very slowly sat down next to him. Peter’s skin was cold, gooseflesh pronounced underneath Tony’s hand as he carefully wrapped his cloak around the Prince’s shoulders. The action made a fresh wave of tears mount in Peter’s body and he bowed his head.

Tony shifted a bit closer to Peter, letting their knees touch and keeping one arm secure around him. “You’re alright. You’re gonna be —” Tony stopped when Peter twisted into him, burying his face against Tony’s chest and crying harder.

Tony swallowed, carefully bringing his other arm around Peter and pulling him closer. It was a bit awkward, Peter bent sideways a little, Tony’s chin resting on top of his head.

Then, so quiet that Tony almost didn’t hear himself, he realised he was speaking.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked at the end as Peter’s sobs began to subside.

And he _was_ sorry. What had he _done_ to this kid? Tony knew firsthand how ugly and consuming and unbearable the loss of family could be. He had not only stripped Peter of everyone he loved, he had — had _revelled_ in the belief that some spoiled prince was getting exactly what he deserved.

But that was the crux of all of this: _no one_ deserved loss like this. To say nothing of someone as pure and courageous and good as Peter. And in all this time, in the deepest throes of grief and loneliness, Tony had just _ignored_ him.

Hadn’t he promised to protect him? To look out for him? It was all in those vows — which had been far more than convenient terms to put to memory.

_To have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish._

Tony swallowed and, afraid that Peter hadn’t heard the first time, he repeated, “I’m so sorry.”

Peter took in a few shuddering, gasping breaths. Tony assumed he wasn’t going to answer, so he was surprised when Peter spoke, his voice strained and raw,

“Does this ever… go away?”

 _This_. Pain. Grief. The weight and the void left behind. The cloud of fear and loneliness and absence that dampened everything.

Peter hiccuped and Tony finally found his voice, though it shook a little, “It gets… It gets easier.” His thoughts went to Rhodey and Bruce and Happy, who had seen him through everything from the moment he met Pepper to the day that Morgan passed. If Peter could find other friends, other people who loved him, then they could help. People like Betty, or even Davis… or, given more time, maybe…

Peter kept shaking, an occasional gasp cutting into the air around them. Tony opened his mouth, trying to say more, wanting to say everything that was on his mind. But his words had run dry. In an attempt to do something, _anything,_ even remotely soothing, he rubbed small circles where his hand rested on the cloak over Peter’s back.

They stayed like that until Peter fell asleep, and Tony was blinking the salt water from his own eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicer crying!  
> Sort of... 😄  
> Thanks for reading everyone! As a reminder we'll be back on Thursday with Beck, I appreciate everyone's thoughts on him and everything going on in his head. His chapters have been really exceptionally fun to work on! As always, many thanks to my betareader Silver Lurker!  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	18. Copper Coins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much to Quentin's frustration, the King and the Prince seem to be getting along better than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: It's Beck so he's all preoccupied with other peoples' sex lives 🙃 Also if you're feeling lost, there's a little timeline in the end note.

It was warm the day that Peter collapsed in the still room. But by the time night fell, the wind had become frigid and fierce. With the rapidly cooling temperature, Quentin found himself cursing the stone floors and thinking jealously of the rugs and extra bedding in the royal quarters.

Not that a knight’s room was anything to scoff at. There was a great deal more privacy than the barracks, which Quentin was grateful for now as he tugged Victoria closer under the sheets.

“Quen, can I ask you something?”

He struggled to hold in a sigh but peeled his eyes open. “What is it?” He mumbled, _and can it wait?_

Quentin twined one leg with hers and lifted a hand to cup her face. He stroked a few stray hairs back behind her ears, hoping maybe he could lull her to sleep.

“I’ve just…” It was too dark to see much, but he could imagine her biting her lip, looking up at him through her eyelashes. He wondered about the same look on Peter’s face, a sweet smile and shy blush colouring his cheeks.

Victoria’s voice brought him back to the dark bedroom, “I’ve been hearing about — and maybe they’re just rumours and I shouldn’t be listening to anything. That’s why I wanted to ask you, just to — oh, I’m sorry. I just want to know, did you ever know a woman named Janice?”

Quentin’s lips twitched but he stilled himself, it wouldn’t do to smirk or laugh at the question. In the darkness, he felt her relax next to him, like she’d released a breath she’d been holding, as if merely bringing up the subject had been difficult.

“She was a woman I used to see,” He admitted, “but that was… probably four or five years ago.” He hesitated then, dropping his hand to run along her side, coming to rest on her hip. “What did you hear about her?”

“It doesn’t matter what I heard. I want to know what happened.”

Quentin swallowed the sigh that nearly burst from him. It seemed like he wasn’t getting to sleep anytime soon.

He plastered a bemused smile to his face instead and pressed his forehead against hers. “Does it really matter, love? It’s over now. We flirted, danced a little, we never even lied together. And she wasn’t the least bit like you, she wasn’t kind or responsible. She had this little habit of taking things from people. You know, slipping trinkets out of pockets, things like that. It spiralled and she got caught. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Is that the whole story?” Victoria’s voice was shaking a little bit so he used his arm to pull her closer against him.

Quentin rubbed gently up and down her thigh, and kept his voice light and quizzical, “As I recall. Did you hear something else?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, apparently torn between confronting him — indulging in the rumours she’d heard — or accepting his story.

“That’s all,” She said finally, “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“Hey, you should always tell me what’s on your mind,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her before she could answer. Then he chuckled, “Want me to tell you what’s on mine?” And he wedged one knee between hers and rolled her onto her back, slipping his fingers between her thighs.

“Oh, Quen — wait!” Her squeal turned into a moan as he kissed her again, eager to occupy her mouth. Because if she wasn’t talking, if he kept his eyes closed, it was easy to imagine a different slender body writhing beneath him.

* * *

The next morning, Quentin was still a bit bleary-eyed over breakfast. He sat at a bench in the dining hall and stared into a full cup of coffee. It wasn’t quite dawn, so there were few others awake. But he usually needed to be up early to arrange morning guard shifts. He took a gulp, not liking the idea of heading out across the castle grounds with the sun not yet up, and set his eyes on two servants standing by a back door.

“Terrible shouting last night from the king’s quarters,” The girl said, “Couldn’t make anything out but then the prince’s boy came scurrying out like a scared cat. I tried to ask him about it but he hurried off.”

“Well you can never get a word out of that one anyway,” The young man she was talking to answered. “Terribly sullen. But what’s there for him to tell us? We already know His Grace doesn’t like him.”

Their voices trailed off as they stepped out of the doorway. _The prince’s boy_ , that would be Davis — despite him being at least a few years the girls’ senior. But there had been shouting last night? Quentin felt a pang in his chest, knowing that — even if it hadn’t been directed at the Prince — it would have frightened and agitated Peter.

“Yes, I’ve got everything I’ll need — I — yes, thank you.” Quentin’s head snapped up again when Banner entered the hall, Mistress Everhart just behind him. Quentin’s eyes narrowed at the sight, they were just about the only two people who could have mentioned Janice to Victoria. How irritating to see both of them at once, and so early in the morning.

Banner was wearing cuffed riding boots and breeches, and his arms were full of several wrapped parcels.

“Well did you see Mister Jarvis?” Everhart asked, “he might —”

“I saw Happy. I saw Jarvis. I’ve seen _you_. I just need to say goodbye to Ton — to His Highness and the Prince before I leave.” Banner’s voice was threaded with impatience, but Quentin could hardly fault him for that; Everhart could get on anyone’s nerves.

 _Before I leave_.

But where was he off to?

Quentin drained the rest of his coffee and stood up,walking briskly around the table as Everhart finally backed off and walked away. Banner turned toward him expectantly, like Quentin was another person on his list that he needed to talk to — for all Quentin knew, he _was_.

“Special trip?” Quentin asked with a smirk, “Sightseeing?”

Banner glowered at him, shifting the packages and folders in his arms. “I’m going to Ferrum, nothing that you need to concern yourself with.”

Ferrum. That was interesting, and terribly unusual. Quentin could count just a handful of times the King had ever been separated from Banner; no trip had been over ten days.

“Well, I’m sure it’s convenient for His Grace to have someone he trusts so much handling the mail,” Quentin grinned.

“He can trust any damn courier.” Banner snarled, “ _I_ have personal affairs at home that may take some time. The messages for Keener are a convenience.”

Harley Keener. Viceroy in King Anthony’s absence, he oversaw Ferrum and its three bordering territories. It was Quentin’s understanding that the boy had been an apprentice to the King in his smithy, another peasant yanked through multiple levels of social stratification.

Not that there was anything wrong with the use of determination and cunning in helping someone rise to power. Keener was astute and sensible, his mind sharp and humour witty. He’d make a good peer and ally.

“Beck,” Banner’s tone drew Quentin’s attention again, his gaze was fierce but also a bit desperate — like he understood that he was making a request, not issuing an order. “While I’m gone, you need to leave Prince Peter alone.”

Quentin clicked his tongue and felt his lips twist into a sneer, “This again.” He sighed, “You’re about to leave and you seek to cut Peter off from me? I’m his _friend_ , Banner.”

“Oh yeah? Well where are your other friends, Beck? Do you even have any alive? Any who will speak to you? I’ve been paying attention and I don’t like what happens to the people who get close to you.”

“Well _someone_ needs to keep him company if the King is still screaming bloody murder every night!” Even as he said it, Quentin thought he shouldn’t have. It was a reckless thing to acknowledge, but the shift in Banner’s demeanour was still satisfying; his nostrils flared as he stepped closer to Quentin and hissed:

“Where did you hear that?”

“Does it matter? You’re not in a position to make demands right now,” Quentin snapped, “I’m looking out for the Prince. I want what’s best for him. If you tell me one more time that I shouldn’t be spending time with him, then maybe I’ll share my own secrets with him… How would Peter feel knowing what you turn into on the battlefield?”

A vein bulged visibly on Banner’s forehead when he tightened his jaw. His voice was a low growl and the load in his arms started to tremble when he stepped forward, “If you _really_ think I’m so dangerous, then you should know better than to threaten me.”

Quentin swallowed, his own bravado shrinking while a thread of cold doubt snaked into his stomach. He took a couple steps back and Banner stormed past him out of the dining hall, shaking and muttering under his breath.

Quentin hesitated, feeling frustrated at the lack of conclusion to the conversation. But maybe that was a good thing, because he hadn’t agreed to anything; he could still see Peter, and Banner would be out of his hair for at least six weeks — if not longer.

Cautious of prying eyes, Quentin glanced quickly around the dining hall. There were a few soldiers engrossed in breakfast and their own conversation, one caught his eye and waved at him. But there were no servants who might have seen the altercation, so Quentin straightened his vest and strolled calmly toward the door.

* * *

After Banner left, Quentin still spent time with the Prince. But Peter became even more quiet. The boy spent a lot more time with Davis flitting between his quarters and the library. He kept his box of ingredients and medical notes close at hand, so Quentin was unable to look for any new additions.

Then — inexplicably, it seemed to Quentin — Peter became _busy_.

It was about a week after Banner left. The library and the royal quarters were suddenly empty and Peter spent full days working in earnest in the King’s office, taking his meals with Edwin Jarvis and helping with affairs of state. He was so occupied, that Quentin really didn’t see him at all.

Quentin divided his newfound time between the library and Victoria, but in either case was left feeling dissatisfied: his research was proving fruitless thus far, and he took to turning Victoria around at night. If he pressed her face into the mattress, then her moans were muffled and a bit lower. That way it felt a bit less like _her_ and a bit more like —

Well, he never let his thoughts go that far.

There was a buzz with the servants exactly one month after the wedding. The ‘milestone’ caused another commotion about King Anthony’s bedsheets; Quentin tried to ignore the clink of coins landing in a tin bowl that morning in the kitchen.

He was standing in the corner, trying to convince Victoria to slip out to the city with him that afternoon, when someone called,

“Last chance for the one month pool, Davis! You’re the closest to them, I’m sure you’d have a good chance of winning.”

Everyone laughed and Quentin turned to see Bradley Davis standing in the doorway to the kitchen, glowering at the girl who’d just spoken.

A boy added with a sneer, “Come on Davis, you _do_ like to concern yourself with whose dick the Prince is sucking!” This elicited several gasps and a wave of stifled laughter. Victoria’s tongue clicked on a hiss of disgust, but when Quentin turned with a reprimand on his lips the speaker had already ducked out through a side door.

Davis was infamous now for not speaking to anyone, and nothing changed with this latest barb. Without a reaction, the staff quickly turned back to morning duties and gossip. Victoria started to say something about their afternoon, but Quentin held a finger up, keeping his eyes on Davis.

The Arachnean took up a leisurely, calm pace across the kitchen. He didn’t look at or speak to anyone as he ladled out a bowl of oatmeal for himself and sprinkled sugar and berries over it. It was probably the same thing he did every morning after the King and Prince went for their own breakfast.

But today, as Davis turned to carry his meal from the kitchen, one hand snaked out to the bowl on the counter where the staff had been placing their bets. With a swipe, he sent the bowl clattering to the floor, coins bouncing in a hundred different directions. Davis didn’t miss a beat as he stepped over the mess on the floor and strode out, leaving the kitchen shocked into silence and a few people scrambling to pick up coins which had rolled beneath cabinets and ovens.

“What _was_ that racket?”

Quentin winced as Christine Everhart whirled into the kitchen, shouting and swearing as the servants scrambled to hide the evidence of their bet while still appearing busy.

“Maybe this afternoon isn’t the best time for us to run off,” Victoria whispered in his ear as Everhart grabbed a boy by the ear and demanded to know what was going on.

Quentin nodded to Victoria, already backing away to escape the developing chaos when the boy confessed and Everhart’s cheeks turned vermillion. “I’ll see you tonight!” Victoria called before jumping into the thick of things to rescue her friend. Quentin made a hasty exit.

He scanned the hall outside the kitchens briefly for Davis, but the Arachnean was nowhere to be found. So, Quentin took a right and started at an easy pace down the hall, wondering what to do with his day if Victoria wasn’t going to be available. He turned right again at the end of the hall, stopping short when he heard,

“My aunt would’ve scolded us for working at the table,”

The sound of Peter’s voice was startling, sweet and still a bit husky with sleep. Quentin tilted his head, realising that he stood just a few feet from the small parlour room where King Anthony and Prince Peter took breakfast.

“Oh, we don’t have to do this now —”

“No, it’s alright. I mean, it’s kind of fun.”

King Anthony chuckled at that and Quentin felt the ghost of a smile on his own lips at how eager Peter sounded.

The Prince went on, “We couldn’t fit one for General Rhodes yet but —”

“And why is that?” The King didn’t sound impatient or rude, just curious.

“The site of the wound needs to heal more. May I...?” There was a pause and Quentin imagined them exchanginga quill or wax tablet, “… Alright, so if this is the leg, you have nerve endings, veins, swelling, a million other things. It can take months to be back — well, not _back to normal_. But, to be ready for something like this. I barely know where to start. You know who we could write to? Steven Rogers.”

Quentin choked back his own snort; despite the hopeless optimism, it was endearing how excited Peter sounded by what they were discussing.

King Anthony’s answer was dismissive, “Rogers wouldn’t offer me assistance if I was —” he stopped, and Quentin thought he was aptly trying to avoid the reference of one king begging another for mercy on their knees. “He has a complete embargo in place. No one from Ferrum, not even a courier with my stamp, crosses his border.”

Peter answered almost immediately, completely undeterred, “What if the letter came from _me_? My mother was from there, my father was close with him. Maybe it’s still a long shot, but it can’t hurt to try. If we’re going to take this seriously then we need to consider what the world already knows. King Steven’s husband is supposed to have a very advanced prosthetic arm.”

The silence after this was uneasy, but not nearly as stoic or strained as Quentin had come to expect between them.

Finally King Anthony said, “Alright, we’ll add it to your agenda. But you shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t answer.”

Peter said, “Maybe _you_ shouldn’t be surprised if he does.” And then he choked on a slightly breathless giggle, as if surprised at his own boldness.

It wasn’t really a full laugh, and neither was the sound the king made. But Quentin _did_ find it a bit sickening, listening to how easily their conversation went. Did Peter not remember that this was the same man who had beaten and degraded him? Who had _killed_ his uncle?

What had happened in the past few days to leave him suddenly _eager_ to talk with the king? What, just because he’d been given a few responsibilities, was allowed to see his friends, now he was — was _chatty? Flirty_ , even? Or was this because of something _more_ between them _?_

Quentin’s lip curled and he turned around to stalk down the hall. He was wasting his own time just standing there putting himself through —

“Beck!”

Just like before, the sound of Peter’s voice was arresting. Quentin swallowed his frustration and turned around as Peter hurried toward him, a stack of papers scrunched in one hand. But the smile on his face and the light in his eyes, that was _new_. Quentin glanced for a moment behind Peter, but King Anthony was walking away in the opposite direction.

“Hey,” Quentin smiled when Peter finally reached him, “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I know, I’ve been really busy. I’ve been asked to assist with some of Ferrum’s correspondence and some other projects and — just yesterday, Mister Jarvis asked for my help with storage and allocation for the harvest, which didn’t go as well this year as I would have liked. But I think everything will be okay, thanks to Ferrum’s other resources. And I…” Peter trailed off and his brow furrowed a bit, like maybe he _realised_ how much he was talking and how unusual that was.

“I think it’s great that you have more to do,” Quentin jumped in easily, “But it was only a matter of time, Peter. His Grace never wastes a resource,” Something flickered in Peter’s eyes at that and Quentin softened, adding quickly, “Just don’t push yourself too hard.”

“I won’t, it’s alright. I think it’s good for me, actually...” Peter lifted his chin a bit and tilted his head past Quentin down the hall. “Are you busy right now? I need to see Betty today so I was just going to prepare some things in the still room, if you…?”

“I can come,” Quentin nodded and stepped aside, gesturing for Peter to lead the way. The Prince led him the rest of the way down the hall. Quentin stayed a couple steps behind, admiring the curve where Peter’s shoulders and neck met. Quentin’s eyes traced the back of the Prince’s collar, wandering lower; he wondered if Peter had dimples on his back like the one in his chin, or how soft and creamy his skin might be past his shirtsleeves and pant cuffs.

Peter was still talking, explaining some of the letters he’d been allowed to write and expressing how grateful he was for the extra work keeping him occupied, when they reached the royal quarters. He let them in and unlocked the still room and breezed inside where he finally quieted.

The Prince looked over his lemon seedlings while Quentin took a seat on one of the stools at the table. His eyes lingered on the cedar box on the shelf right across from him. It was pressed to the back of the shelf and two bottles were placed in front of it, the thing looked largely untouched. Maybe Peter really hadn’t added anything to it in all this time.

“How’s Betty?” Quentin asked while Peter set an open satchel on the table and started to fill it with papers and small bags of herbs.

“She’s feeling a lot better,” Peter said, crossing to open one of the chests on the floor. He pulled out several notebooks and a peculiar metal instrument, then asked, “Beck, can you get some goldenrod? It’s in one of the drawers in the cabinet — keys are in the bag.”

“Uh — yes,” Quentin pushed his stool back and found a ring of short silver keys in the satchel. He crossed to the cabinet and fiddled with matching a key to a lock; four across and five down, each one of the square drawers was locked and Quentin had five keys to pick from. “Which drawer?”

Peter’s voice was a bit distracted as he looked deeper in the chest for something else, “Umm, I think it’s the second row. I’m sorry, I haven’t memorised it yet.”

“Couldn’t you just label them?” Quentin laughed as he tried two keys unsuccessfully.

“Some of it’s dangerous,” Peter said in answer, maybe he would’ve said more but his mind was elsewhere. Dangerous enough to not want other people to know at a glance? How many people did the kid, or his late aunt, expect to come through here?

When Quentin wrested the first drawer open, he fought not to roll his eyes at the thin black stalks of vanilla pods in a stoppered glass bottle. He threw a glance in Peter’s direction as he started on a second drawer, but the kid was thumbing through one of the journals, muttering quietly to himself.

Quentin knew what goldenrod looked like. But he didn’t know what to call the contents of the second drawer he succeeded in unlocking. He tilted his head to the side and reached in, lifting a bottle with a dark rust-coloured liquid inside it; even without touching it, Quentin got the sense that it would be sticky.

“Oh, sorry.” Quentin’s head snapped up as Peter set his books aside and crossed the room, “I didn’t even tell you what to look for.” He took the keys from Quentin and set to work testing them to the locks, “it’s in a bag, but there’s a sketch on it of a yellow flower.”

 _I know what it looks like_ , Quentin wanted to say, but instead he just held up the bottle still in his hand, “What’s this?”

“Opium tincture,” Peter said, “It’s useful for easing pain or helping someone to sleep. ” he paused when he opened the drawer with goldenrod and whisked the bag into his hand. “It’s not easy to come by anymore, but my mother’s family used to send some.” As he spoke, he took the opium bottle from Quentin’s hand and put it back, carefully shutting and locking the cabinet drawers again.

“Could it help Betty?” Quentin asked as they crossed back to the table. He glanced back at the shelf with Peter’s abandoned box.

Peter laughed, “No, not right now at least. Opium can be really dangerous, it can make people ill, some people can get addicted to it.”

“But the goldenrod, you showed me that in the garden when we…?” When Peter stopped at the edge of the table, Quentin came to stand just behind him, perhaps a bit too close. If he shifted his weight just a bit then they might brush against each other; Quentin wondered if Peter felt the same buzz of warmth, and resisted the urge to press his hand to the small of Peter’s back, or to turn the Prince’s chin with one hand and kiss him...

“Yeah,” Peter swallowed rather forcibly and kept his eyes on the table as he filled his satchel. His hands were nimble and each movement was focused. Then a gentle smile formed on his lips, “That reminds me, I wanted to harvest some of what’s left in the gardens, before it gets too cold. And, Beck...” Peter hesitated, like he was talking himself into something. In the pause, Quentin nearly grabbed the kid’s hips to turn him and press their lips together. But then Peter said, “Would you be able to go into the city with me sometime? I can’t today but I wanted to get a gift for- for _him_. To say thank you for the past few days.”

A _gift_. To say thank you.

Peter Parker was decidedly, completely, and irrevocably _adorable_. It was in the way he lurched through conversation and blushed over every other sentence. How intentionally he refused to call King Anthony by name. How, when given the barest hint of kindness and freedom, he immediately wanted to express his gratitude.

And it didn’t even occur to him to do so in the bedroom.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” Quentin beamed, “You two seem to be getting along better these days.”

Peter hesitated at that. He closed his satchel and then paused, something uncertain – something _heavy_ — flickering in his eyes.

“May used to tell me it never hurts to be polite,” Peter said eventually, “And, I don’t know, Beck… I think he’s trying — and with everything that’s happened to him…” Peter shook his head and sighed, “I just mean, a political marriage is nothing new… The least I can do is try.”

Before Quentin could answer, his thoughts buried in how admirable and mature the Prince was being, Peter swung the satchel over his shoulder and started toward the door. Quentin followed him from the still room, waiting politely for Peter to lock up. He glanced around the solar and into the sunroom but no one else seemed to be around.

As he followed Peter from the royal quarters he asked, “Can I escort you to the bakery?” He thought he already knew the answer but added with a cheeky smile, “It’s probably high-time I make up for the disaster last time.”

Peter shook his head, “I appreciate it, but I’ll be alright. Brad comes with me and, well, everyone’s pretty familiar now with what happens when you get on his bad side.” He said this with a wry smile and Quentin chuckled softly. It was probably just as well, Hogan always had a couple eyes on Peter from afar and Quentin didn't want to give that man any more reason to inexplicably hate him.

They strolled to a stop where the hallway diverged and Quentin turned to face the Prince, bowing a bit at the waist, “Well, I’m glad Davis is able to look after you. It’s been a pleasure to spend time with you again, My Prince.”

Peter tucked his bottom lip under his teeth and Quentin caught a faint, shy gasp before the Prince stuttered out a thank you and turned away. Quentin watched him go, fingernails pricking into his palm where he’d balled his hand into a fist. It had felt all but impossible not to grab Peter’s wrist, lean in to kiss him on the cheek. Just a chaste farewell, nothing that —

Quentin sighed when Peter finally disappeared down a descending staircase. Then he walked briskly back to the royal quarters. The solar door was open and, even though he’d checked before, Quentin glanced into the bedroom and sunroom before approaching the still room. As he’d thought, the castle staff was otherwise occupied _—_ probably cheering or grumbling through the results of their perverse betting pool.

He moved as quickly as possible, pulling off his right boot and fishing out two thin hooked lockpicks. The still room door wasn’t difficult to tumble, but it took a moment longer than he expected. He grinned when he heard a telltale _click_ and twisted the doorknob to push inside.

He silently thanked Janice as he pulled his boot back on and entered the still room. He hadn’t _really_ lied to Victoria, not about anything important: Janice was a silly camp follower with a streak as a petty thief. She’d been able to teach him a few tricks with picks and sleight of hand. But as useful as she was, she’d also been completely delusional — _insisting_ the baby was his after just one fuck.

Quentin shook his head as he crossed the still room, pulling Peter’s box off of the shelf first. The Prince would be gone a while, but Quentin probably didn’t have a lot of time before another servant wandered into the royal quarters. There were only two new sheets of paper, and nothing in the box seemed to have been touched in days.

With a spare quill and sheet of paper, Quentin copied down every line from the new additions — a detailed list of ingredients and a number of complex equations he couldn’t make sense of. He folded his copy over twice, tucked it into his pocket, and put the box back in its place.

Then Quentin hesitated, glancing cautiously around the still room. The collection of books and herbs, locked chests and drawers, were certainly all tempting. But he already felt like he was pushing his luck, so he went straight to the door.

Quentin shut the still room door behind him, impatiently struggling to lock the door again. Janice had always been better at that — it was such a shame she forgot that last time.

But then the door was locked and Quentin hurried from the royal quarters, slowing to a more even pace as soon as he was in the halls again. With the box back in its place, with the door locked, there would be no indication that anyone had been there since Peter left.

Quentin went straight to the infirmary, but he kept his gait leisurely, smiling and greeting everyone he passed. The note felt like it was burning a hole through his trousers. He took just a moment to look around the lobby of the medical wing, ensuring it was empty, before marching to the small office sequestered in the back.

Quentin stepped in, shut the door softly behind him, and withdrew the paper from his pocket.

“Do you have a moment, William?”

Quentin’s heart was pounding, but he couldn’t say exactly why. There was something _final_ about this; about finding a sequential list of ingredients that had been left alone for a while, like Peter’s project was finished. Presumably, Riva’s answer was going to be the same as ever: this was a tea meant to soothe stress and anxiety, meant to help someone relax at the end of the day.

But Quentin hadn’t come this far by believing everything everyone told him, by not following up. Not even with people like Peter.

Riva looked a bit irritated by the interruption but he nodded and held his hand out, “Always, Sir Quentin. Let me see.” Quentin passed him the papers and Riva adjusted his glasses to take in the list.

“It’s been a while,” He commented, not taking his eyes off the paper, “I thought maybe this project had been abandoned.” He muttered softly to himself then. Quentin’s patience grew thinner the longer Riva spent muddling over his answer.

Riva pushed his chair back to stand up, “One moment.” He said, and crossed to a bookshelf on the other side of the room. It probably only took a couple minutes for him to look up whatever he wanted to check, but it seemed to Quentin to take forever.

He carried a book back to the desk and continued to mutter as he copied out some of the math.

Finally, Riva put his quill down on the desk with a snap. He lifted Quentin’s copy tentatively by one corner and held it out to him.

“Tell General Rhodes there’s nothing to worry about.” Riva said.

Quentin took the paper and felt a knot in his chest loosen, “This is harmless?”

Riva sighed and thought over his answer. He spoke carefully, “It’s not harmless. In fact, those ingredients, those calculations. It’s a very sophisticated poison.”

“A _poison_?” Quentin repeated, struggling to keep up with “ _tell_ _General Rhodes there’s nothing to worry about.”_

“Yes, it’s very impressive. _That_ combination of ingredients? Those amounts? If someone ingested enough of it, they would fall asleep and _then_ the toxin would kill them. I wouldn’t be able to wake them up; I doubt anyone could. And if just the body was brought to me? I’d think it was heart failure.” But then he waved his hand in the air, “But this is all theoretical. The only way for the poison to set in without alerting the victim through its symptoms — muscle paralysis, stomach pain, inability to speak, that sort of thing — is the narcotic. I’ve followed King Anthony to quite a few exotic corners of the world and even I haven’t seen opium for the last two years. No one has it, no one _could_ have it.”

Opium.

Peter had opium.

_If someone ingested enough of it they would fall asleep... I wouldn’t be able to wake them up._

Feeling a bit numb, Quentin folded his paper again and stuck it into his pocket. He heard his own voice thanking Riva, saying that he would tell General Rhodes and excusing himself from the stifling office.

He turned left out of the infirmary, engrossed in thought as he made his way down the hall.

Peter had a lethal poison. He had a surefire way to kill himself. But were things really that _bad_? Hadn’t Quentin been a good friend? Why would he —

Wait.

If Peter wanted to kill himself, he didn’t need something that would feign sleep or heart failure. If Peter wanted to kill _himself_ , he could have done it ages ago with a rope or a knife. This poison, these notes, the box, the secrecy — this was the work of someone trying not to get caught. This meant the consequences of the death would _matter_.

This was something Peter couldn’t risk messing up.

Quentin felt his heartbeat slow considerably and he strolled to a stop at the end of the hall. Double doors opened up onto a stone cloister; thunder rumbled from a grey sky on a chilly day but no rain was falling yet.

He thought back to a hot summer afternoon. To the resounding crack of fists and palms on Peter’s skin, to the boy hunched over, wracked with sobs.

 _He’s ruining my life_!

And then the day in the library, after Quentin told Peter about his uncle’s death: _You’re lying! He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want this._

Peter had sneered on his wedding day: _Is he so worried I’ll run, that I need a guard to escort me to the altar?_

That same night he’d choked out: _It’s supposed to be for someone you love. And I don’t…_

And after Davis’ trial: _You’re really not the one who should be apologising._

Peter had a dangerous poison, and he was waiting for the right time to use it. Not only that, he had a poison that would kill carefully, that would put its victim to sleep and make it seem like their heart gave out. This was someone Peter could not be caught hurting.

He had saved General Rhodes’ life, had befriended Banner, had defended Davis.

There was only one person left in the world that Peter might hate enough to want to kill. Someone who he needed to fake companionship with, needed to work amicably with, needed to be heard laughing with over breakfast.

Before they’d even met, King Anthony had made the mistake of underestimating Arachne’s prince.

If Quentin was right, that mistake would cost the King his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I tried to mention near the start of each scene when it was happening, but I recognise maybe I didn't do a wonderful job of that. So I've cleared up the timeline a touch below:
> 
> Ch. 16  
> -Recaps Chapters 10 - 15 from Beck's perspective. Ends the day that Peter falls in the still room and Tony yells at Brad.  
> Ch. 17  
> -Occurs about 1 week after the end of Chapter 15/16. Tony and Peter chat about Peter being heir and his friends.  
> Ch. 18  
> -Starts the night that Chapter 15/16 end (when Tony yells at Brad.)  
> -Scene 2 (with Bruce) is the morning after 15/16 end.  
> -Remainder occurs about 10 days after 15/16 end. About 4 days after 17 ends.
> 
> So I hope that's clear as mud! 😄🎉 When I write it out like that, it's clear to me how crazy it gets 😆
> 
> As always, thanks to my beta reader Silver Lurker for her help! Have a good one,  
> Grace


	19. Chrysanthemum Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With each passing day, the weight in Peter's mind is starting to feel better. He feels more like himself. He feels almost okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Non-explicit discussions on: war, character death, surgery, etc.

In the same twenty-four hours, Peter realised that he had the means to kill the King, Tony confronted Brad in the still room, and Bruce left for Ferrum to deal with personal matters. In the weeks after this, Peter tried to keep himself as busy as possible.

He perfected his poison recipe and made sure he had all the ingredients needed for it, but then he tucked the box away and tried not to think about its contents.

He didn’t use it yet, telling himself a different excuse each night. First, it was that everyone must know he was angry at Tony; if the King turned up dead right after screaming at Brad and upsetting Peter, then Arachne could hardly be absolved. As Tony had reminded them that night, the stakes were too high and the costs too steep for Peter to be caught.

Then, after Tony asked for his help with affairs of state and they started sharing tea again, Peter told himself it was best to wait a little longer still. He couldn’t exactly kill Tony with the very first cup of tea he made him in over a week. So the Prince spent his evenings serving Tony a perfectly harmless drink — best to get them back into the habit, after all.

And then Tony agreed that he could write a letter to King Steven Rogers to ask about prostheses.

Peter was so excited that he sat down to write it that same day; he met with Tony in the middle of the afternoon, who furrowed his brow when Peter told him he’d come to write the letter to Sciath Réalta.

“Is that really how it’s pronounced?” Tony’s lips twitched as he repeated, “ _Shkeea Ray-ulta_?”

Peter cocked his head to the left and nodded, “Yes, how did you think it was pronounced? Why does it matter?”

“Well it’s not spelled that way!” Tony laughed.

Peter wrinkled his nose, “Well, not to you, that doesn’t mean it’s _wrong_.” Across the office, Jarvis snorted and they both turned to look at him. But the man just shook his head and quickly excused himself. When he was gone, Tony turned back to Peter looking exasperated.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter if we’re just writing a letter.”

So together they wrote two pages; they listed their preliminary ideas and expressed that any assistance from Sciath Réalta or James Barnes would be appreciated. After they were done, Peter hesitated at signing his name.

“Are we forgetting something?” Tony asked.

“No,” Peter shook his head, “Not about this. I was just — may I add a personal note? I just want to ask about how they — how they are.”

Tony shrugged and stood up, “I need to go meet with Happy, but add whatever you want if you think it’ll help Rogers answer. I’ll see you this evening.” And then Tony left, so Peter was alone to muddle over what he wanted to say to Steven.

Finally he wrote: _I know flooding was bad in the spring, and I apologise that Arachne couldn’t help more at the time. You have your doubts about King Anthony, and I understand that. But this project is in the best interest for our people, I hope you’re able to trust me, and that our nations can be close once again._

Peter tried not to be too optimistic when he took the letter to Jarvis to be sent. It wasn’t likely that Steven would ever even look at the letter, let alone that it would cross the border. But the thought of being able to help General Rhodes and Bennett Brant and so many others who had been injured, who had their lives completely altered, was something to look forward to. And another reason for Peter to bide his time with Tony.

This was a respectable and complicated project, and one that Peter doubted he could navigate alone. Tony was known, after all, for his expertise in smithing and engineering. So Peter thought he needed to wait more, at least until he heard back from Steven if not longer, once the project was closer to completion. Anyway, Peter was tired at the end of each full day, and he wanted to be focused and alert when the time came to kill the King.

Or, perhaps _if_ that time came. Peter found it easier and easier not to let his eyes and mind linger on the poison. His days were full with court, with his work with Jarvis, with helpingBetty; he was eating and sleeping soundly; even sitting with Tony in the evening, chatting with him over meals, planning projects to work on, felt…

It felt okay. Almost.

He remembered what Bruce had said all those weeks ago in the library, that Peter and Tony — the man he’d been before Anthony the Conqueror — would have gotten along. He wondered if he was seeing that man now.

One of few things that still troubled Peter was the Arachnean resistance. Brad relayed what news he got in town, but reports were spotty and vague. This was made worse by the castle’s resolute decision not to let Peter hear about anything, meaning he was all the more aware of hushed whispers just out of earshot, Jarvis picking out certain papers and agenda items, and Beck becoming suddenly too busy to see him at all.

But as worried as he was, Peter was hesitant to confront anyone on the matter, cautious that what few responsibilities he had eked out for himself could be stripped away. So Peter waited and worked.

And with each day that passed, the knot in his chest felt a little looser and a heavy weight in the back of his head felt lighter.

Two weeks after writing to King Steven, Peter and Brad were lingering at the bakery after an early morning appointment with Betty. They sat in the common space upstairs; Peter pulled a chair close to Betty’s and periodically reached to adjust the pillows supporting her back. They swapped lazy stories about Ned and their childhood. Brad and Bennett sat across from one another at the table, playing a dice game and constantly upping their wager — best two out of three became three out of five became four out of seven and onward. Peter didn’t think either of them had the funds to indulge whoever won, but it was something to do.

“Bennett,” Peter’s voice drew the boys’ attention at _best 14 out of 27_ , “It might be a long shot, but I’m working on a project to develop prosthetic limbs. Would you be able to help, when the time comes?”

Betty made a soft, surprised _ohh_ at that, and Bennett shifted in his seat. He reached down to his knee and his hand made a circular movement; it reminded Peter of the way Tony rubbed at the brand of his chest.

Brad asked, “You heard back already from King Steven?”

“No,” Peter shook his head, then added at the uncertain look on Bennett’s face, “It’s still a ways off so you don’t need to decide now, but I wanted to let you know about it.”

“Well there’s no reason not to try,” Betty giggled, “that sounds great, Peter.”

Bennett didn’t answer though, he just fiddled with one of the dice on the table, rolling it from one side to the other. Finally he asked, not raising his eyes to look at any of them, “Would I be able to… to lift on it, and run and stuff? Or just stand?”

“You should be able to lift,” Peter kept his voice soft, “And maybe run. Walk better, at least. We don’t know yet for sure but I hope you’d be able to do all of that. That’s what we- what I want to work on, anyway.”

“You could sign on to help with labour then,” Brad said, “It’s supposed to pay really well.”

“Yeah…” Bennett still looked uncertain. He wiped a hand through blonde hair which had grown a bit long, and Peter noticed that his elbow and shoulder seemed to jut through his skin. He hadn’t been this small during the war, had he?

“It won’t require an operation,” Peter added, starting to understand what made Bennett so nervous. “I mean, I can’t promise it will be painless but it… it won’t be like the summer.”

Finally Bennett’s eyes lifted to meet his, blue fragmenting as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He was probably embarrassed by his own fear because he asked in a meek voice, “No blood?”

“No blood.” Peter promised.

“Amen,” Brad sighed and for a moment the tension in the room grew warm and solemn. They were all thinking about days of suffocating heat and rationed water, the buzz of flies and the stench of disease that even the rains couldn’t wash away.

Peter swallowed, conscious that his own memories probably didn’t compare to Bennett and Brad, the ones who had fought and been torn open. He asked quickly, “What sort of labour is it? That- that pays well?”

“They’re adding water pumps to each district in the city,” Betty said, “though I heard they’re able to do it all over the country too.”

“It’s something King Anthony devised,” Bennett added, voice a bit husky and raw from the emotion which had crept up on them, “Mom says it’s a helluva lot faster.”

“Saves a lot of time,” Betty nodded.

 _Clean water to every district in the city – to every settlement in Arachne_. Had Tony done that for all of his other territories too? Were there other standards he’d been able to implement? Having water so accessible could save hours for some families; it could mean not just extra time but greater productivity, more years in school, more production. And the labour for it was paid.

“That’s wonderful,” Peter said when he realised he’d been quiet a while. “I’m glad that…'' He trailed off. _I’m glad that he’s good for something_ sounded jaded and cruel, so he didn’t finish the thought.

Brad was reaching for their dice again when Betty twisted her head up and asked, “Do you hear that?”

Everyone froze, listening to the new hum that had filtered into the bakery. It wasn’t just the autumn wind outside or the chatter of Arachne’s citizens going about their day. Peter got the sense that there might be _a crowd_ of sorts. Brad stood up first and crossed to a window facing out onto the street, poking his head outside.

There were footsteps on the stairs then and Peter began to feel uneasy. He stood just as Mrs. Brant reached the landing and turned to them.

Brad turned back from the window and said, “It’s the King.”

Mrs. Brant added, “Prince Peter, Bradley, His Grace would like both of you to meet him outside as soon as you’re able.”

“Is everything alright?” Betty asked as Peter turned to pack his satchel back up.

Peter said, “I don’t know.” Uncertainty was squeezing and sending a prickle of doubt through his stomach, “I’m not sure why he’s here.”

He looked at Brad, but he just shook his head. Peter’s hands were shaking as he folded and tucked away papers. He hesitated, looking around for the herbs he wanted to give Betty until she held up her hand to reveal she was holding them.

“You already gave them to me, Peter.” She gave him an encouraging smile but he could see she was a bit nervous for him. Peter nodded and turned back around, pulling his bag over his shoulder.

“Peter,” Peter exhaled sharply when Mrs. Brant stepped toward him. “This is nothing to worry about, dear. I promise. This will be good for you both,” Peter thought for a moment that she meant him and Tony, but then she inclined her head toward Brad and Peter felt even more confused.

Still, Mrs. Brant had sounded terribly reassured so he asked, “Do you know what this is about?”

“It’s _nothing bad_.” She pronounced each syllable sharply, and for a moment Peter thought she was going to embrace him or touch his shoulder. But then she just smiled and stepped aside, leaving the stairway clear.

Brad went downstairs first and Peter followed, heart climbing steadily into his throat as they went through the bakery. He struggled to ignore the eyes that followed them to the door and then they stepped out into a bright morning.

Tony, Happy, and five soldiers stood just outside the bakery. The retinue turned expectantly when the door swung open. The cool air made the hair on Peter’s neck stand on end but he set his eyes on his husband as he approached.

Tony asked, “How’s Betty?”

“She’s doing well,” Peter took in the modest crowd watching them, “Has something happened?” His thoughts lingered on the box in the still room.

The King shook his head, “No. Everything is fine, Jarvis said you’ve nothing planned for the rest of the day, is that right?”

Peter nodded, Tony’s evasive answer did nothing to quell his anxiety. Tony turned, holding his hand out in the opposite direction of the castle, “Well then, would you both be willing to accompany me?” He didn’t say where, but Peter nodded mutely nonetheless. He didn’t want to hesitate in front of anyone, and his interest was piqued now by Tony’s peculiar behaviour and Mrs. Brant’s assurance.

So Brad, Peter, and Tony followed Happy further into the city, flanked on either side by soldiers. Some people stopped to watch their procession, but Peter found himself distracted by Tony. The King was walking a few feet ahead of him, his steps a bit too fast and too big and hands rubbing together nervously. The sky was cloudless and blue today. Despite a chill in the air and a biting wind, the sunlight was warm on Peter’s back, and it wasn’t as cold as it _could_ be this time of year.

Peter clung to Mrs. Brant’s words, _this will be good for you both_ , as they were led to a cemetery near the city’s eastern gate. That eerie, clawing feeling in Peter’s stomach returned and they passed two guards standing at attention at low iron gates. They followed Tony and Happy past dozens of short headstones. Peter tried not to turn, not to assess any dates or see how new many of the graves surely were.

“This is where Michelle’s family is buried,” Brad murmured and Peter strolled slowly to a stop, realising he was right. Suddenly the cool wind felt a bit ominous and the gravestones around them seemed to loom. The two soldiers closest to Peter stopped with them, but Happy and Tony and the others kept going. They were heading for a tall marble headstone in the centre of the graveyard.

“Oh,” Brad said right before Peter focused on it, and Peter felt his knees begin to wobble a bit. Tony and Happy both turned at the site of the memorial as Brad and Peter hurried to catch up, drinking in how the white marble reflected the sunlight as they approached.

_Michelle Jones._

_Fallen in Service._

_Fearless Protector._

Peter read the epitaph carved into the stone, the ornate letters curving around one another. In the centre of the stone, just above her name, were two jewels: a pale blue sapphire and an amethyst.

Peter’s voice was breathless when he spoke, “Is that —”

“Cerulean and violet,”Brad said, his voice breaking as he choked out, “Her birth and death rain.”

Crests were carved on either side of the words _fallen in service_ , they depicted a round spider’s web; the spider was climbing toward a six-pointed star at the top of the web. Four doves were arrayed across the middle, flying together to carry a quill grasped in their feet.

It was _Arachne’s_ royal crest, not Ferrum’s.

A white headstone like this, with the colours of Michelle’s rains and the precise script of the lettering, would have taken _weeks_ to arrange and commission. Not to mention it would be prohibitively expensive to source marble from the mountains, but it would reflect now each new rain that fell, glowing in pale pastel colours on sunlit days before they each faded in turn.

Peter and Brad both stepped closer. Peter had all but forgotten that anyone else was there until Tony started to speak.

“I couldn’t find her resting place but… I spoke with Mrs. Brant about some of Arachne’s burial customs and reached out to local artists. She told me about the stones and that Michelle was sworn to you, Peter, so the crest would be used to honour her service…” Tony stopped to clear his throat, “And I wasn’t sure about the words but the mason said soldiers usually had three lines — for their own life, their liege’s, and their oath. I just wanted to recognise what she’d done for you, meant to the both of you, but if either of you wants to change anything —”

Tony was cut off when a broken, choked off sob left Brad’s throat. Peter reached out, thinking he might need to hold him up, but Brad twisted away from him to face Tony.

Then Brad went down to his knees and bowed his head, a sob rocking through his shoulders as he fought to control his voice again.

“Th-th-” Brad spluttered and sniffled, then managed to stutter, “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”

Tony looked up at Peter, eyes wide like Brad had struck him instead of knelt to thank him. Peter could admit he would have expected the former long before this.

Peter couldn’t say anything at all, his throat was so thick and his mind buzzing with emotion and the whistle of the wind around them. Tony had not just tried to _find_ Michelle, he had honoured her. And done it in such a way that an armsman from a fallen nation could never have even _hoped_ for. He had spoken to friends and to local artists, had sought out answers to Arachne’s cultures and customs. Something in Peter’s chest welled up then, an overwhelming feeling of warmth and release, like part of the grief always with him was thawing.

“You’re welcome, Bradley. Stand up.” Brad was still weeping as he clambered to his feet, wiping his eyes and covering his open mouth to try and stifle his sobs. Tony kept shifting on his feet, looking anxiously at Peter, who stepped back to let Brad face Michelle’s grave again.

Peter opened his mouth, he wanted to tell Brad _we’ll give you a moment_ , but he couldn’t make a sound. Instead of speaking, two tears ran a straight path down his cheeks. Peter quickly wiped them away and stepped back, jerking his head to indicate Tony should come with him.

Tony followed Peter further into the cemetery while Happy and the soldiers spread out. They walked until the wind drowned out Brad’s short, soft gasps. Peter still couldn’t get his voice to work, Tony walked slowly beside him, one hand rubbing distractedly at his chest.

Once they were far enough away, Tony said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to overstep. I know it can’t make amends but I just wanted to do… _something_. And it’s not just the memorial, either,” his voice sped up as he kept talking, but he sounded more anxious than excited, “I wanted to ask if you would help me write a law to protect soldiers and their families — all of them, Ferrumean and Arachnean alike. Something to- to compensate them — to take care of them. People like Davis or- or Sally Avril.”

Peter’s brow furrowed at that. He _knew_ the name Sally Avril, but it wasn’t someone he could place.

“The same day of Davis’ trial,” Tony reminded him after a moment, “there was a girl sentenced to labour because her fiancé died in battle and she resorted to theft to survive. That wasn’t right.”

The same day of Brad’s trial. That had been just after the wedding. Michelle’s grave and writing to Steven Rogers and their tender conversation a few weeks ago with Ned’s painting, these developments weren’t new — not entirely. Tony had always been paying attention, had been just as troubled as Peter was by injustice in that courtroom — some of it, at least.

“And, I was thinking, you could help me get Ned’s painting framed. We can hang it in the solar.” Tony went on, his voice was starting to sound a bit strained, like he was desperately searching for more than _all of this_. “But- but only if you _want_ to, of course. We don’t — you shouldn’t feel—”

“Thank you,” Peter finally blurted out, his voice cracking as he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, it’s — the grave is beautiful and I would love to help with the law and the-and the—” he stopped to wipe his eyes and Tony’s shoulders slumped.

“It’s alright?” He asked, relief lacing through his voice. For some reason it made Peter think of Bennett’s small, shy question: _no blood_?

“It is, it’s perfect.” Peter nodded hurriedly. There were so many thoughts, so many words, bubbling in Peter’s chest and longing to burst out of him. But he just repeated, “Thank you. Thank you.” Because it was the easiest thing to say, the most obvious thing.

Peter had to lift his chin a little to look at Tony. The King smiled gently at him and Peter wondered if it was the sunlight that made his bronze eyes swim and glitter. He sort of wanted to lift his hand, to touch that neatly trimmed beard and to see a smile light across Tony’s face, filling his cheeks and breaking over the dark curve of his eyebrows.

Peter swallowed and took a small step back, turning sharply away from Tony. They took up a leisurely stroll back toward Brad; Peter kept his focus on the ground, fighting the warmth creeping down his spine. They stopped when they reached Happy, still a ways off from the memorial.

They looked over at Brad, who was on his knees with his hands folded; he periodically bowed at the waist to touch his forehead to the ground in front of the stone, then lifted himself back up.

“What’s he doing?” Tony murmured.

“Widower’s Vigil,” Peter whispered. He wondered if, in the chaos of their nation being at war, Betty had gotten the chance to do this, and if Ned’s family had accompanied her.

Even with all the space between them, it felt wrong to watch Brad. Peter tilted himself away, inclining his head back toward the cemetery gates. “We should go, if that’s alright. He’ll probably be here all night.”

“All _night_?” Happy snorted and Tony pursed his lips when he glared at him.

“We can go,” Tony nodded and started to walk away. Peter hesitated before turning to Happy.

“Can you leave two men with him?” He asked, “On either side of the path, facing away from him.”

“You want me to just have them stand all night?” Happy scowled, fixing his eyes on Brad again.

“It’s important for other soldiers to stand watch for him,” Peter bit his lip. They weren’t _fellow_ soldiers, they hadn’t fought alongside Michelle or known Brad, but it would have to do.

Happy thought about it for a moment, until Tony turned around with one eyebrow raised.

“That’s fine,” Tony said, “Double their wages for today.” Happy’s shoulders slumped a bit and he nodded politely to Peter,

“Alright, we’ll keep an eye on him, kid.”

“Thank you,” Peter smiled and followed Tony out of the cemetery, a new sense of calm in his step and ease in his mind.

* * *

Back in the castle, Peter took lunch with Tony in their quarters, sitting in the sunroom and chatting over preliminary ideas about a law for soldiers and veterans. After they’d eaten, Peter expected Tony to go back to his office or to disappear for the afternoon, but the King just sat back and looked out the window at the pale, clear day.

Thinking about the easy morning with Betty, the exquisite gravesite in the city, and now this quiet afternoon, Peter felt like he could breathe easy. He stacked their plates on the low table between them and asked,

“Would you like some tea?”

Tony grinned, it was that easy friendly smile that Peter had been looking for at the cemetery. “Tea before nightfall? How’d I get so lucky?” Tony chuckled and so Peter went out to the still room and began to heat a kettle of water. A few weeks prior, he had harvested some of the bright chrysanthemum blossoms in the gardens and dried them. He steeped them in the pot and arranged a few of the flower buds into porcelain teacups before adding a teaspoon of honey.

When he returned to the sunroom, Tony’s gaze was fixed out the window, but he wasn’t looking at anything in particular. Instead he seemed distant, holding his head in one hand and leaning back in his chair.

“Chrysanthemum is a special tea here,” Peter said as he approached, rousing Tony from wherever his thoughts had been buried, “It’s for good health, celebrates the harvest, and…” Peter stopped talking. Despite everything, despite the beauty of the day and the clean air and the very obvious ways in which Tony was making an effort between them, Peter didn’t know if he wanted to explain that chrysanthemum tea was often shared between young lovers; a couple might pick the flowers together while courting and then arrange them in their cups, debating what they could see between the steam and the golden light.

Tony took a sip and shifted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “This is wonderful,” he said, but his smile was a bit weak as Peter sat down next to him, “Thank you, Peter.”

“You’re welcome,”

But still, even with the warm drink and the compliment, the air in the room felt different than it had just minutes ago. Peter’s fingers fidgeted with the handle of his cup and he asked, “is everything okay?”

Tony took another sip of his tea, thinking over his answer. Finally he said, “I have a question about Michelle; is that alright?”

Peter nodded, but Tony didn’t relax. Instead he leaned forward to put his teacup down on the table and then clasped his hands over his knees.

“Peter, do you remember the night before Bruce left. When I yelled at Brad and I made — I forced you to —”

“Yes,” Peter said quickly, he didn’t want Tony to bring up any of the details of that night, anything about pushing Brad or the horrible things he made Peter say out loud. Just the thought of it made his head throb.

Tony unclasped his hands and stared down into his palms. He sighed before he continued, “Do you… You told Davis something that night, about Michelle going to find you when we met. About her telling you about the marriage proposal.”

“Y-yeah,” The word came out through tightly clenched teeth and Peter felt his heartbeat picking up a bit. Was Tony going to tell him that they’d met on the battlefield, that he was not just directly but _personally_ responsible for her wounds, her death? The thought made Peter feel dizzy and sick.

“So you hadn’t heard about the proposal before that day?”

Peter tilted his head to the side, coming back to Earth as his worst fear dissipated. “No, I didn’t… What do you mean?”

Tony ran a hand through his hair and shook his head; he sounded bitter and frustrated when he spoke, but not _at_ Peter. “I mean I sent you _four_ letters in the month after your uncle’s death. I explained what he had done, I offered to lay down arms if you said yes, I… I thought you were ignoring me. I thought you were being petulant and reckless, that you didn’t care about your army or your country. I thought —”

“No!” Peter gasped, cutting Tony off sharply. _Four_ letters? _Four_ previous marriage proposals? Peter swallowed and restrained his voice as best he could, finishing softly, “I would never have — I mean, I would have answered. I didn’t… I never _got_ any letter from you. But does that mean… I wrote to _you_ once, after his death. You didn’t —?”

“No,” Tony shook his head, cutting Peter off. The room started to feel cold, an uneasy feeling hanging in the air. “I never heard from you.” Tony turned to look out the window again; Peter suspected he was displeased, but unsurprised, by the answer.

“I thought so.” Tony said, “At least… lately, I thought. It doesn’t make sense. What I used to think of you, it doesn’t match what I know now.”

Peter understood that. He hadn’t expected an answer from _Anthony the Conqueror_. But the man sitting across from him? Yes, he surely would have written back.

Four marriage proposals — four chances to stop the carnage — unanswered. Ignored. No wonder Tony had seen him as a coward and a brat, had been stunned by his abilities in medicine and statecraft, hadn’t understood Arachne’s heirship. Not only had Peter seemed to snub Tony, he and Ben had planted the seed that he was at home the entire time. But if Peter had heard sooner, had been able to stop the fighting, held more control in negotiating, Michelle could still be —

“What happened, then? What went wrong?” Peter didn’t want to sound cold or vexed, even if he was. He kept his voice controlled, curious.

Tony shook his head, he sounded defeated when he said, “I don’t know.” But not just defeated, the man was _guilt-ridden_. Perhaps feeling as torn about that last month of fighting as Peter felt now.

Tony added after a moment, lifting pleading eyes to Peter and moving to rub his chest, “But I’m… I’m _working on it_. I swear. I was told the first man, his horse bucked him. The second and third didn’t return. The last, I found his body when we arrived at the city gates but I wonder…”

“If that wasn’t all coincidence,” Peter finished, unsettled at the notion that he or anyone in Arachne’s army might have killed a messenger. “No, this sounds like someone using the fog of war to their own advantage, to undermine Arachne or Ferrum… or both.”

Tony paled slightly, but Peter got the sense that this wasn’t news to him. The King sounded urgent, _desperate_ even, when he spoke again, “I’m trying to get to the bottom of this, Peter, I promise.”

Peter nodded quickly, trying to show he understood; clearly this was not _Tony’s_ fault, not personally. But still it left a sour taste in his mouth and a chilly, uncomfortable grip in his stomach. His hands were shaking too much to reach for his tea.

Peter looked across at Tony, at the hand which so constantly rubbed on his chest. His throat was dry but he managed to rasp, “Do you want me to…” Peter lifted his own hand to touch his chest, “The brand. If it bothers you, I can take a look at it.”

Tony blinked at him, “You want to help me with… this?” His nails dug into the spot in his shirt.

Peter nodded, “I don’t know if it’s… if the pain is _real_ — I mean, I know it’s real, but it could just be from your own memories. I can’t treat it, if that’s the case. But if you want I could maybe give an ointment or…”

“You think anything would help it? After all this time?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I can try.”

Peter stood up as he spoke and gestured toward the still room. Tony followed him and sat down on one of the stools at the table. He removed his shirt without being asked. Where Peter felt himself relax at the familiar thrum of medical work, he saw Tony’s shoulders hunch and his muscles begin to coil when Peter held a hand out toward the messy twist of skin.

Peter stopped just before he touched the brand, lifting his eyes to meet Tony’s. “We don’t have to —”

“If you think you can help,” and Peter nodded, pressing the pads of his fingers against a dark line of the triangle, right where the bottom point met the circle on Tony’s sternum. Leaning forward like this, he could feel Tony’s breath on his face. Peter increased the pressure slightly and lifted his eyes to meet Tony’s. “Does that hurt?”

“It’s… it doesn’t hurt _on_ the mark, but around it.” Tony said and Peter straightened up, pulling his hand away.

“Was it done with an iron?”

Tony nodded and Peter paused, drumming his fingers on the table and fixing his eyes on some of the shelves in the room.

He really couldn’t be sure what would work, what _could_ work for such an old wound. It might be a matter of giving Tony something to just make his body _think_ it felt better, which was a peculiar phenomenon. Or, perhaps he could recommend a counterirritant to distract, though Peter didn’t know how receptive Tony would be to the idea. Peter’s eyes shifted over the box of poison notes and a sick, cold feeling reared in his head so he turned away.

“So,” Peter said as he moved toward the cabinet with May’s rarest ingredients, “With the letters. In what ways are you working on it?”

Tony watched him fiddle with the drawers and locks. Finally, he said, “Bruce went to Ferrum to collect… some paperwork that we think might help. And I’ve been meaning to ask you, Peter, if you have anything that was written and signed by your uncle. I mean, that you can verify was him.”

“Why my uncle?” Peter asked, stopping to look back at the King. “If the problem is with _your_ intelligence and courier system why do you need _his_ writings?” He was trying to sound a bit sharp or even irritated, but his voice wavered and the question just sounded worried.

Tony shook his head, “It’s just a precaution, to know his handwriting alongside others. I’m not accusing him, Peter, it’s just… it’s a formality. Do you know if he kept journals? I promise I would give them right back.”

Peter thought of the letter tucked in his dresser in the bedroom; his uncle ever-hopeful to remind Anthony the Conqueror of the link between power and responsibility. Ben hadn’t succeeded, but now it seemed Tony had every interest in learning this lesson. He was making steps to improve relationships, improve livelihoods, even to make amends for the pain and the hurt he had caused.

“Well, I do have —”

A knock outside made both of them jump. Tony turned quizzical eyes to Peter who shook his head to indicate he wasn’t expecting anyone. Tony reached to pull his shirt back on while Peter hurried out of the still room and to the door of the royal quarters.

Beck looked distraught when Peter opened the door, eyes wide and breathing shallow. But when he saw Peter his features smoothed a bit, he beamed and Peter felt himself relax under shrewd blue eyes.

“Hi Beck, you’ve been so busy. Is everything alright?”

“My Prince,” Beck bowed very slightly to him, then fixed his attention behind Peter and said, “Your Grace, General Rhodes and Mister Jarvis need you immediately.”

Peter moved aside as Tony reached them. Peter wondered what had Beck so agitated, what could so desperately call the King’s attention right now.

“I cleared my day with them,” Tony said, “they know I —”

“Of course, Your Grace. But this is an emergency. It’s…” Beck stopped and his gaze went furtively to Peter.

 _It’s about the resistance_ , Peter realised, unless there was some other great secret that he wasn’t meant to know about. Tony must have put this together too because he nodded.

“Of course, I’ll go right away.” And in just a few moments he crossed to his desk, gathered a few things together, and then was gone.

Peter watched the door shut behind him, thinking of the brand on his chest and the cold teacups in the sunroom. Of four lost letters and the single connection to his uncle in the bedroom.

“My Prince,” Peter turned his focus to Beck, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot. He licked his lips and his brow twitched in agitation.

“Peter, I…” Beck stopped, opened his mouth to speak again but couldn’t say anything, then shook his head in frustration.

“Beck, what is it? You’re scaring me.”

Beck blushed the slightest bit and looked down at his feet. “Ah, I’m sorry, My Prince. It’s just…” Beck sighed and lifted pleading eyes to meet Peter’s, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I can’t hold on to this any longer. I hate thinking about how… how _hurt_ you’ll be.” Peter thought for a moment that Beck’s hand was going to reach for his, but neither of them moved.

“Just tell me.” Peter gave as encouraging of a smile as he could, “What’s happened?”

“Peter… there’s been an ongoing resistance to Ferrum’s rule since you agreed to marry His Grace. The personal armsmen of King Benjamin have been fighting skirmishes, interrupting trade, smuggling at the border… They were captured today, and they’re going to be put to death.”

Ah.

Despite valiant efforts in the castle and the city, only half of this was really news to Peter.

Beck went on, “I’m so sorry, I should have _told_ you sooner. I felt — just awful about it but His Grace insisted —”

“It’s alright, Beck.” Peter smiled warmly. “It’s alright, this isn’t your fault. Everything will be fine.”

Beck hesitated, but he seemed the slightest bit encouraged by Peter’s confidence, “You already knew?”

“Well, I knew about the resistance. The capture is new… That happened today?” Beck nodded, “Well, that’s okay.” Peter reassured him, “I’ll talk to him about it tonight or tomorrow, we can handle it in court. Arachneans are still tried by Arachnean law right now, they were fulfilling their duty to my uncle, so it’s alright. I’ll keep them safe and _I’ll_ be safe, I promise.”

Beck didn’t answer for a moment. The longer the silence stretched on, the more uncertain Peter began to feel. Finally Beck whispered, “Peter, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. The king has always said that because they didn’t lay down arms when ordered to, they aren’t bound to his terms with you. They’ll be sentenced to summary execution at dawn.”

They _what?_

“N- _no_.” Peter shook his head, “No, that’s not fair, they need a trial, he doesn’t understand the oath they swore to my uncle, he’s supposed to —”

“Peter, this is exactly _why_ he kept their existence from you! He was going to capture them and kill them and he just hoped you would never find out! I don’t know if I should have told you or not but I just can’t — I don’t want your people to die needlessly.”

Peter’s mind raced. Tony was well within his rights to demand a summary execution of rebel soldiers, and if he was under the impression that Peter didn’t know anything about them then he could probably get away with it.

“Tomorrow?” Peter asked again, “That’s not enough time, I need to—” He yanked his nails through his hair and looked around the solar desperately before turning to Beck again, “I need to do something, Beck, they’re good people. But if he —”

“You can’t stop a king’s decree, Peter. And you don’t have a lot of time here.” Beck’s voice was strained and cracked, “Nothing can stop this.”

“Nothing?” Peter repeated, a bit breathless as this reality sank in. Had all of this, all of the past few months, been for nothing? Peter _still_ couldn’t protect his people? Tony _still_ couldn’t see the problem with all of this?

Beck added gently, “Nothing… except maybe an act of God.”

Peter searched Beck’s eyes, looking for any other way, for another direction, as if he could find serenity there instead of panic.

Peter glanced in the direction of the still room, the weight in his head and the knot in his chest and the cold fear in his stomach all came roaring back.

He would give Tony the benefit of the doubt, it was the least he deserved. Peter would talk to him tonight, would explain everything, would persuade him to change his mind about this.

But, whether Peter liked it or not, if an act of God was needed then an act of God it would be. Ferrum’s king would bend to Peter’s request, or else he would break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks!  
> You made it through the LONGEST CHAPTER yet (that deserves some applause, we were hitting up agains 7k 😅)  
> But, as you can see, I had a lot to get across so hopefully it was entertaining-enough ☺️ Also, it was SO nice to write from Peter's perspective again. We hadn't heard from him in ages!  
> Fun fact: the pronunciation for Steve's country is based on Irish phonetics/vocab that-we-might-have-translated-incorrectly. But we gave it a shot 😄  
> As always thanks to my beta reader Silver Lurker, she's the best.  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	20. Bitter Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Peter and Tony can think about is one thing: this argument would have been easier three months ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Arguing/shouting

Peter couldn’t get his heartbeat to slow down.

He spent the better part of the afternoon in the still room, carefully reviewing his notes and measuring out the poison ingredients he needed. His fingers wouldn’t stop shaking and his ears kept ringing, but still he forced his mind to calculate and his hands to weigh and measure. He counted all of the too-fast heartbeats in his head and reminded himself of the lives at risk.

He pictured his uncle’s guard and remembered that he wanted to preserve Arachnean lives above all else; he tried to rehearse what he wanted to say to Tony, but the thought of the King left his mind swimming a bit and he began to doubt himself.

While he waited, Peter mused over his papers; he added notes about the maximum safe dosage and crossed out the most incriminating numbers, replacing them with more innocuous values. He underlined warnings on the dangers of hemlock and opium, and how long to monitor someone should they ingest this as part of a medicinal treatment.

He brewed a small cup of the tea and took a few sips, spitting the drug out each time. He adjusted the amounts of angelica root, cinnamon, and ginger which disguised the flavours of the more dangerous ingredients. When he was finally satisfied, he spat out his final sip, then absently fiddled with his quill and the tea set.

Peter paced from one end of the royal quarters to the other and thought it was a good thing that Brad was still in the city performing his vigil, it was better for him to be as far away from this as possible.

If Brad or Betty knew what he had planned, if Bruce or Beck ever pieced together the truth of what might happen tonight, would they still care about him? Would they even be able to look at him? Peter couldn’t stand to even see his own reflection right now. It felt like his heart was being dragged up and down a washboard, like it was being wrung and flattened and beaten out of shape.

Peter supposed that he would deserve that, at the end of this. A killer’s heart — someone who used poison and lulled his victim, his _husband_ no less, to death through sleep — must be terribly broken.

The afternoon wore on, and Tony didn’t come back. Peter tried to read, he cleaned the still room over and over again, he even thought briefly of praying. But to appeal to a deity now, one he wasn’t even sure he believed in, seemed like a nasty and sacrilegious thing to do. The sun set, he listened to his heartbeat pulsing in his throat, in his scalp, in the soles of his feet.

Peter kept thinking that this would have been easier three months ago. Easier when he hated Tony and thought him nothing more than a monster.

Maybe the King wasn’t going to come back tonight? The thought made Peter stand up from his chair in the solar and pace to the window, rubbing his hands together and muttering to himself. What if Tony planned to have the armsmen killed _tonight_? Or, even if it was going to happen tomorrow, what if he didn’t return from his office? He had worked through the night before, was there any reason for that not to happen now?

Peter’s heart climbed into his throat again. He could be too late already. He needed to take more action on this, no matter how suspicious it might seem. If Tony wasn’t going to come to him, then Peter needed to go to Tony.

Peter started toward the still room, intending to tuck his box away and pick up the tea set. He would present it to the King as a peace offering — though the truth was such a dizzying contrast that for a moment Peter’s heart clutched in his chest and he froze, gasping for air. He would explain that he _knew_ about the rebels, would ask if Tony was willing to change his mind on their fate.

He had almost stepped into the still room when the door to the solar opened and he whirled around. Tony stood in the open doorway, staring across the room at him.

Peter felt as if there had never before been this much space between them.

* * *

Tony couldn’t get his mind to focus.

The day had started out _good._ Idyllic, even. But now his head hurt and his eyes were sore and the prickling warmth in his chest felt worse than usual. He couldn’t help but wish that these damn rebels had been caught just one day later.

Or, better yet, they could have stayed in the hills, remained a nuisance interrupting trade and engaging in petty skirmishes. But instead they snuck _into_ the city; ten unarmed Arachnean rebels brazenly entering the streets to do God knows what.

Quite literally. Tony had approached their leader in the dungeons. He meant to ask what they had entered the city for, wanted to steer the conversation toward some kind of compromise or deal. The privilege of a private execution, perhaps, or the release of some of the soldiers. But the captain of Benjamin’s guard — a grizzled one-eyed woman with a stern face and thin lips — just tilted her chin up and stared over his head when he talked to her. The others followed suit; they refused to acknowledge him or his words, looking cooly over his head or else occasionally glancing at their commander’s example.

It was infuriating, to say the least. Tony tried to speak calmly, but the longer she ignored him the shorter his patience became. If she was going to be stubborn and obstinate, if she didn’t care for her own life or her comrades, then so be it. Tony told her as much, spitting that if she was so eager to die, then he would gladly arrange it. But even that didn’t spark a reaction, not in any of them.

So Tony’s hopes of negotiation diminished, any notion of reconciliation with Peter going with them.

Peter was going to hate him again. Was going to accuse him of cruelty and savagery and, more likely than not, refuse to talk to him.

Tony thought with a snort that maybe it was an Arachnean thing, this childish silent treatment.

The prisoners’ silence left him with extra time but that didn’t make any part of the evening better. Tony completed the necessary paperwork with Jarvis; he listened to Beck’s report of recognising and intercepting the rebels; he talked himself in and out of returning to his rooms for the night. As much as he didn’t want to face Peter, didn’t want to indulge his arguments and give him time to fight — and oh, he would _surely_ fight — Tony finally decided that it would be worse to hide. Peter deserved the truth before they were put to death, he deserved to know what was coming and he deserved to hear about it from Tony. But _God_ this was going to be hard. Maybe as hard as it had been to publicly approach Howard’s throne when Morgan was dying.

So Tony decided he would return to his quarters, he would tell Peter and endure whatever grief or venom came, and in the morning he would sentence the soldiers to death. This time tomorrow night, it would all be over with. But that didn’t make it easy to leave the office, to pick himself up and go to face the Prince.

Tony kept thinking that this would have been easier three months ago. Easier when he hated Peter and thought him nothing more than a coward.

He stood up, his hands hovering uncertainly over the desk, wondering what he should bring, if anything. But after shuffling a few papers and opening and closing his agenda a couple of times, Tony finally sighed and started for the door. He left his work behind and took up a brisk pace through the halls.

Outside the door to the royal quarters, he hesitated again. He stopped with one hand on the doorknob, uncertainty leaving his stomach in knots. _Him,_ the ruler of _eleven_ kingdoms, scared at the thought of talking to a boy who’d yet to see his nineteenth year! With a huff, Tony twisted the doorknob and pushed inside.

He didn’t realise he was holding his breath until he entered the solar and found himself facing Peter, and then all Tony was aware of was how badly he wanted to exhale.

Peter was standing just outside the still room, too far for them to talk comfortably with one another. So they just waited, staring. Peter’s feet and shoulders were squared and his gaze was unflinching. Tony stepped inside and gently shut the door, already suspecting what would be said before Peter lifted his voice.

“I know about the Arachnean resistance.”

Tony swallowed, tempering his fear and doubt and budding frustration as he started to cross the room. He kept his voice even, “How long have you known?”

“A month.”

A month.Peter had known when they talked about his role as heir of Arachne, when Tony held him crying in the bedroom, when they wrote to Steven Rogers, when they stood together at Michelle Jones’ memorial. Peter had known a long time, and had waited to bring it up. Had he trusted Tony, then? Hoped that this would be handled with mercy and leniency? Tony was trying to decide what to say, how to explain that this was unfortunate but necessary, when Peter turned around and disappeared into the still room.

Tony narrowed his eyes. Were they _not_ going to talk about this? Was Peter just going to accept matters as they were? Did he maybe even agree with this verdict?

Peter emerged a few moments later with his tea kettle, which he carried to the fireplace. He knelt down to put the kettle to boil, keeping his back pointedly turned away from Tony. The tension in the air, the hum of energy between where Tony stood and Peter knelt, was palpable. Tony opened his mouth but Peter spoke first,

“This doesn’t have to happen.”

Tony shut his eyes. Peter’s voice was too soft. He was not angry, not on the verge of tears, he just sounded calm and pragmatic. It was a little bit unnerving. But then, what else should Tony expect? He was a prince defending his people, after all. And with a month’s foreknowledge, he was bound to have prepared for this conversation.

Tony sighed and stepped closer to Peter, wrapping his hands around the back of the armchair where the Prince usually sat in the evening. “Peter, when you agreed to marry me _everyone_ had to lay down their weapons. Every soldier in _both_ armies.”

Peter stood up and turned to face Tony, lips pursed and eyes burning with determination. “I know that this is complicated,” he said, and Tony fought not to curl his lip at how patronising Peter sounded. “I know it’s difficult to understand, but those people swore an oath to my uncle and _only_ to him. My decisions as Crown Prince did not extend to them. If his last order was for them to defend Arachne’s people, was to resist you, then they _have_ to fulfil that.”

“Your uncle’s last wish was for us to marry!” Tony tried not to snarl the words. “ _That_ was his last will! They defied that by continuing to fight!”

“But it may not have been his last _order_!” Peter insisted, and he started to walk around the chair, trying to close the space between them.

Tony shook his head and twisted away, not wanting to look in Peter’s eyes. This didn’t make sense. Benjamin was dead, he’d asked for them to marry. So these soldiers were, what, too _dense_ to think for themselves? To make their own decisions as military campaigns developed and circumstances changed?

Peter followed Tony across the room, “Please understand, I’m sorry that your proposals never reached me, I’m sorry my own letter was intercepted, I’m sorry for the trouble they’ve caused your army and –”

“The _trouble_ they’ve caused?” Tony whirled around, “This is about more than a little _trouble_ , Peter! These are the people who hurt Rhodey! They have cost us time and money and _men_! They slaughtered an entire Ferrumean squadron two months ago — only _one person_ came back from that battle and it was Beck! Isn’t he your friend? What if they’d killed him!”

“Beck is not my responsibility to protect!”

Tony shook his head, “But you claim that these soldiers were loyal to your uncle and not you. So why do you need to protect _them_?” They were talking in circles, neither willing to bend. Tony had half a mind to bring up what Peter said when he was sick and bedridden, about inheriting the people of Ferrum and taking their care upon himself. But he was reticent to bring up that time, what if Peter collapsed again now? What if he asked for Tony to clarify how he knew that, or what else they had talked about?

The kettle started singing and Peter stepped away quickly, going to the hearth and dragging his nails through his hair. He snapped, “I need to protect the Arachnean people because _that’s_ what rulers do! That’s what _you_ were supposed to do after I agreed to marry you, after you seized this country! But you never even asked for help! I mean, did you even think for a split second of asking _me_ to negotiate with them, asking _me_ what I could do about this?”

Tony sneered and turned away. But what could he say to that? No, he had never considered it because when they met he hadn’t seen Peter as capable of anything? That then, once he did know him to be intelligent and worthy of respect, that it was too late? They’d already been married, and the lie had been stretched too long?

Tony shifted his weight and crossed to open the window to the left of his desk. The night air was cool outside, and a bit damp, and he drank in a few refreshing breaths. Turning to watch Peter work, Tony wondered if it was calming for the Prince to have something familiar to occupy his hands during an otherwise tense and unpleasant argument.

Finally Peter said, his voice now laced with bitterness and frustration, “Five months. You gave me _five months_ in the prenuptial contract for Arachnean citizens to be tried under Arachnean law, and _Arachnean law_ does not allow punishment without a trial!”

Peter carried the tea set to the end table between their armchairs and all but threw it down with a clank. The Prince glared down at the table. Tony felt a thread of weariness form in his chest as it sank in that he would now be subject to that same look for months to come.

Tony kept his voice as stoic as possible, “They didn’t surrender when you agreed to marry me. They didn’t surrender when the contract was signed. They are _not_ protected by it.” Surely even Peter must see that.

Peter shook his head back and forth, like there was an insect buzzing in his ear. Tony wondered if he had been friends with any of these soldiers, had been close to them. Maybe there was more to this than princely duty, maybe he was trying to preserve some form of connection to his family and friends. Did he _know_ these people?

“I only agreed to marry you because you said the fighting had stopped. You _lied_ to me.”

Tony stared down at the desk, drumming his fingers on the wood. “I did.” He said eventually, struggling to keep his voice in check, “And I’m sorry about that, I am. But if there was any fighting ongoing then you wouldn’t have gone through with the wedding, and the last thing I needed was even more unrest, even more doubt and even more wasted time.”

Peter’s hands were trembling as he lifted the kettle and poured two cups of tea. He picked one up and walked to the other corner of the desk, as far from Tony as he could stand. He put the teacup down and their eyes met; Peter’s pupils were small despite the low light and his irises were dark, nearly black. “I just don’t get it.” Peter hissed, “If you want to prove you’re not some bloody-minded conqueror — if you want to prove you care for the people of Arachne — I mean, this makes you no better than the butcher the whole world has made you out to be!”

Peter stepped back then, but it didn’t seem to be out of fear. It was like he was done, there was a sense of finality as he walked away.

 _Anthony the Conqueror: Butcher of Kunira,_ the savage nicknames swirled in Tony’s mind and he gritted his teeth, staring down at the cup of dark brown tea which had been placed on the desk. Had it only been hours ago that they were sitting in the sunroom, their conversation easy and company pleasant?

Tony turned away from the desk and paced a couple feet away, staying along the eastern wall. He stopped to look out the window, at the country of Arachne with its peculiar rains and passionate prince. Peter was a good person, but couldn’t he just yield on this one thing? Why couldn’t he just understand that this wasn’t so black and white?

Tony cleared his throat but didn’t turn away from the window. The cold glass, the blackness outside, not looking Peter in the eye — it all made his head a little clearer.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, enunciating each word as clearly as he could. “I’m sorry for lying to you. I’m sorry about these soldiers, I wish they had just stayed in the mountains.” He gasped a bit at this point, and thought about the woman who had glared at him in the dungeons. She hadn’t talked to him, but maybe he could present Peter with the offers she had not been willing to listen to? They could be beheaded privately instead of hanged in the city square. But even as the thoughts crossed his mind, Tony felt doubt twisting violently in his stomach — no, Peter would just sneer and shake his head at that. Call him callous and claim he _still didn’t get it_.

Tony continued, not knowing quite where his thoughts were going, just that he desperately needed to say this — needed to prove to Peter that he was _not_ just a cruel, empty man.

“I’m sorry about — about _everything_ that’s happened. But I know you understand that sometimes a king has to make hard decisions. I have too many enemies to appear weak, Peter. I can’t risk letting these people go. It will incite more rebellion, it will make people think they can get away with fighting me, killing _more_ of my men — do you want that? You want more unrest throughout Arachne, maybe in the rest of Ferrum? More people are going to get hurt. Are going to _die_. And it won’t just be here.”

Tony sighed. Getting that out wasn’t quite as satisfying as he’d expected it to be. It was off, unbalanced. He felt small and mean and like he was on the verge of ripping something apart. Of breaking something beyond repair. He started to turn around, intending to go to the desk and take a sip of tea to try and calm the whirlwind in his brain, but he froze.

Peter was on his knees in the middle of the solar, hands curled into fists on his thighs, head bowed, his entire body shaking as tears tore through him.

“P-p- _please_ ,” Peter choked, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I’m b-b-begging you _please_.” His voice was muddled with emotion but he went on, “Don’t do — d-d-don’t make me —” When he folded himself further to the floor, Tony thought it was as much out of supplication as just Peter’s body bending under the weight he carried.

How could Peter put all of this on his own shoulders every single day? How could he consider this his own burden? How could he care so deeply for everyone around him, even at the cost of his own dignity and safety?

“Please…” Peter whispered from the floor, “ _Tony_. _Please_.”

Tony felt like someone had hit him over the head. A high-pitched ringing started in his ears and for just a moment he felt too winded to quite breathe in. Every day since they’d met, since the day Tony had struck him for calling him _Anthony_ , Peter had not called him anything. He had refused to directly acknowledge Tony as king or even as a _person_ , now Peter was breathless, repeating over and over again, “Tony please — Tony, just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it — I can’t — Tony — Tony — pl-pl-”

 _Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it._ Unbidden and unexpected, a particularly nasty thought dredged itself up in Tony’s mind, how an open offer like that could mean _so_ many things; they could settle this steps away in the bedroom, if not here on the floor or even on the desk —

 _What the hell_? Tony clenched his jaw as hard as he could and curled his hand into a fist, a hollow feeling of disgust opened in his stomach.

For a moment, Tony was downright woozy, ill with the onslaught of perverse memories. He had spent years trying to rid himself of his father’s repulsive legacy, had pointedly turned away from Ferrum’s indulgence of sick favours and abuse. Howard’s court had been a rancid _pit_ , under no circumstances would Tony let such ideas linger _now_ — with Peter on his knees setting aside all his dignity — what a shameful and deplorable thing to do, to even _think_.

Swallowing bile, Tony quashed the invasive thoughts and buried them. He needed to extend to Peter the recognition and respect he deserved — _had_ deserved all this time.

Tony stepped forward slowly, not wanting to startle Peter as he approached; the Prince was still weeping and rocking the slightest bit.

Peter cut off with a gasp when he felt Tony’s hand on his arm. He looked up but his eyes were shimmering and red with tears.

Tony put his other hand on Peter’s shoulder, his voice was raw and thick with emotion when he urged, “Stand up, Peter. Stand up.”

Peter came uneasily to his feet, clutching Tony for support as the King helped him to stand.Peter was still shaking, but Tony resisted the urge to hug him, he just tried to keep his touch as reassuring as possible.

“Peter,” The Prince raised an arm to wipe his eyes and he swayed a bit but managed to focus on Tony, “I…” Tony swallowed, each word seemed to stick in his throat when he finally forced them out, “I can’t get them to talk to me, Peter. But… You know the law and Arachnean custom better than I do. Can…” It felt odd, it felt _wrong_ and _weak,_ for Tony to be admitting to something he couldn’t do and deferring so explicitly to Peter’s expertise. Hadn’t he come in here determined not to let the Prince sway him? Was this really the best course of action?

Tony steeled himself. If this was going to save his friendship with Peter, if this could protect the lives of Benjamin’s soldiers and preserve what Tony and Peter had built over the past few months, if it could stop another irrevocable scar from forming in the years ahead of them, then the least he could do was let Peter try.

“Peter, can _you_ talk to them? Will they listen to you? Can you —?” _Can you do what I can’t? Is there some way under law to save their lives and to protect the peace?_

Peter was wiping his eyes again, his voice shaking as the fight and anger left his body, “I-I don’t know. I can try. I th-think they’ll talk to me,” he gasped, “I’ll need to look at — at some of Uncle Ben’s books and — and we should get Jarvis,” Peter was beginning to calm down as new plans formed in his head and he set his mind to work on a new task. Satisfied that the immediate grief and anger was gone, Tony felt his shoulders unwind and his arms relax, releasing a tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding onto.

Tony stepped back in the direction of the desk, feeling much more at ease as he picked up his tea. He lifted the cup to his lips but then swayed, turning as Peter’s hand pulled his elbow back.

“Sorry!” Peter whisked the cup from his hand and went to clean up everything else on the end table, “The tea will put us to sleep, it’s not good for working.” Peter explained. He looked back at Tony when he reached the still room door, and Tony didn’t think he had ever seen Peter’s smile so relaxed.

“I can make us some coffee,” Peter said, “Can you wake Jarvis? I’ll meet you both in your office.” Tony nodded, stunned that Peter wasn’t even taking _a moment_ to relax or to breathe a sigh of relief.

But then, their work was far from finished tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! Slightly more comprehensive communication! I love it when that happens 😅 Thanks for reading everyone! As always I can't wait to share more with you next week. Wishing everyone who is celebrating a safe and happy Thanksgiving!  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	21. Binding Oaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dizzying legal negotiation leaves Peter and Tony exhausted as they fight not to compromise their values.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Discussion about warfare, war crimes, death, etc.

When Peter stepped into Tony’s office with the coffee tray, he could hear low voices from the drawing room.

“Don’t misunderstand, milord, I’m always happy to assist; but, well, it is late, and with the morning you’ve planned —” Jarvis cut off when Peter gently knocked on the door and, balancing the tray across one arm, stepped inside.

Jarvis and Tony were seated across from one another at the table. Jarvis had already amassed a number of books and folders but they hadn’t yet been opened.

Still, the man beamed as soon as Peter entered, “Ah, Prince Peter! I trust now that you’re here the purpose of this midnight meeting can be clarified,” Jarvis’ gaze flickered between Peter and Tony and he jumped to his feet as soon as Peter started to pour the coffee, “Please, Your Grace, allow me. Thank you. Sit down, fill me in.” So Peter pulled out the chair next to Tony but didn’t sit down yet; he reached for the books they’d already assembled and flipped one open.

“Mister Jarvis, I apologise for the cloak and dagger,” Peter said, “But His Highness has seen fit to reconsider the sentence of King Benjamin’s personal armsmen, we want to find a… _private_ solution as soon as possible.”

Jarvis passed a cup of coffee to Tony and then to Peter, but he kept his eyes on the Prince the entire time. “I see, well I must say I’m happy to hear the fate of those soldiers is being reconsidered. Prince Peter, I trust you have some ideas already?”

“Well, perhaps that’s where we should start. Their role to the crown.” Peter said, “These people are not just _soldiers_ , they’re separate from Arachne’s army. A royal armsman makes an oath to the king and they… they swear _everything_ that they are, everything they _will_ be, everything they _can_ be, to their liege. They’re trained to fight and to defend the king with their life, but they also learn history, politics, tactics and strategy... They need to be able to counsel the king in state as well as personal affairs. They pledge their strength, their creativity, their innovation, their… a part of their _identity…”_ Peter stopped, worried that he wasn’t making sense or that his rushed explanation would lead to the Ferrumean men condemning this as ridiculous. When Peter had been quiet for a moment, Jarvis ventured,

“Do you have the exact language of the oath, Prince Peter?” Peter nodded and reached for a second book, flipping through vows for knighthood, marriage, and citizenship until he found a page for royal armsmen.

“Here,” Peter turned the book toward Jarvis who knit his brows together as he peered at yellowed pages and thick ink, taking in promises of fidelity and loyalty, pledges to serve to the best of one’s physical and mental ability, to love and protect the king and to uphold the law above all else.

“This binds them for life?” Jarvis raised his eyebrows and, when Tony made a motion across the table, he passed the open book to the King.

“Their liege can release them,” Peter said, “If they’re injured or become too old. But usually it’s for life.” Jarvis’ frown deepened. Peter began to wonder just how unusual this oath really was.

“Michelle had a role very similar, in service to me,” Peter added, hoping the connection might help Tony to understand more. “A foot soldier goes home to be their own person at the end of the day, or the end of a war. But a royal armsman… it’s different. They can’t change their job, they can’t get _married_ without the king’s permission. So I think their silence to you,” Peter paused now to lock eyes with Tony, “is indicative of fulfilling their final orders in some way. If they were explicitly told to resist you or not to help you, then they won’t talk to you, either. It would dishonour them and the vow they took.”

“If they will not talk to anyone, they will hang.” Tony said, and Peter swallowed the lump which climbed into his throat.

“I know,” Peter said, “But since everything they do is attached to fulfilling their orders, then they entered the city for a reason related to those orders. They might talk to _me_. How many were arrested?”

“Ten,” Jarvis answered, “We believe it’s the last of them. I could fetch their commander here?”

“The —?” Tony cut himself off and made a vague motion toward his left eye.

“Susan Úlfsdóttir?” Peter asked quickly, drawing their attention, “She was the captain of his armsmen. She’ll know exactly what his orders were; if any of them will talk to me, it would be her.”

Jarvis stood up, “Then I’ll go bring her,” he announced. He turned away from the table before stopping mid-step and looking around with a grimace, his gaze fixed on Tony, “with your approval, Your Grace?”

Tony nodded with a wave of one hand and the curt order, “Wake Happy, take him with you,” and Jarvis hurried from the drawing room.

While they waited, Peter drummed his fingers on the book in front of him. Ten armsmen had been captured. And they were the only ones left? Ben had fewer than eighty when he’d left to challenge Tony. How many had perished in the remaining weeks of warfare? How many in the _months_ afterward, which Peter had not been made privy to? If not for all of the lost letters and lies, would all of them still be alive?

“How well do you know this Úlf- Úlfsdót — this _Susan_?” Tony asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“She was in Ben’s service for over thirty years,” Peter said, “She came to Arachne before my parents even met. Made a name for herself as a mercenary before she lost her eye, decided she wanted something more to believe in.”

Tony raised his eyebrows “Your uncle trusted a mercenary to swear herself to him?”

“She proved she understood the oath. That’s all he needed to know.”

Tony put his elbows on the table and knitted his fingers together, “Talking to you is one thing, Peter. But will she _negotiate_? Will she want to hear anything we have to say?”

Peter didn’t know how to answer that, so he was grateful when the door opened and they could both turn away from one another again.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Jarvis entered first, crossing immediately to his seat. Peter stayed standing when Susan and Happy entered but then the woman stopped, moving no further than the doorway.

With her left eye sliced out and the corner of her lip twisted from another old scar, Peter remembered that Susan was not just Ben’s captain and advisor, not just a family friend from his childhood and a mentor to Michelle. She was an intimidating figure; taller than Tony and Happy and even Beck; she was even thinner than Peter remembered — but he supposed that made sense with the way she had lived the past few months. Still, every line of her body was defined by whipcord muscle; faded blond hair, greying now for some time, was chopped haphazardly around her ears.

Her eye, piercing grey and unflinchingly focused in the low light, tracked Jarvis to his seat, passed over Tony like he was not there, and then finally settled on Peter.

“Prince Peter,” Susan rasped, still not stepping into the room. Despite her hands chained behind her back and Happy holding her by one arm, she seemed to draw herself up to stand taller. Her gaze raked Peter up and down and the corner of her lips twitched, “You look well.”

Peter inclined his head to her, “As do you,”

“Lying doesn’t suit you, Your Grace,”

Jarvis let out something like a huff of surprise but Peter felt his shoulders relaxing, something in his chest loosened. Susan had been a close friend of Uncle Ben, she understood Arachne. It felt like a very small piece of home, a fragment of that old room Peter had locked away for himself on his wedding day, was suddenly within arm’s reach.

Determined not to lose this, Peter turned so Tony sat on his left and Susan stood on his right. He held his hand out to a chair across from himself, a couple of places down from Jarvis, “Susan, will you speak with me?”

Susan said, “I will speak with _you_ , Your Grace,” and she did not spare Tony even a glance.

Peter’s heartbeat picked up a little bit. He lowered his hand and wiped it on his trousers, there was a prickling heat in his palms and the back of his neck. “I understand,” Peter said, “And will you speak with me on — on my husband’s behalf?”

A pause. Tony shifted his weight in his seat, Peter could feel the King’s impatience and, with his left hand, held a finger up.

Finally Susan asked carefully, “Would you speak of your own accord, Prince Peter? Or would you be merely a puppet controlled by the ring on your finger?”

Something like a hiss left Tony’s lips and Happy’s lip curled angrily. Peter worried for a moment that someone might start screaming. Quickly, he cleared his throat and said,

“I would speak for myself and my husband. He must agree to final terms, but I will have my voice,” He turned to look into Susan’s eye as he added, “I will protect people’s lives to the best of my ability, as my aunt and uncle taught me.”

Very softly, Jarvis chimed, “Well said, My Prince.”

Tony growled, “Jarvis,” and the clerk fell silent.

Susan turned her head very slightly, “Would you mind, Master Hogan?” And Happy escorted her to sit at the table.

Without looking up at her, Tony said, “You can unbind her hands, Happy,” And there was a bit of shuffling and mumbling as the shackles were released.

“You need me in here or should I wait outside?” Happy asked as Susan sat down.

Tony raised his eyebrows, “Do you _want_ to be here?”

Happy sniffed and declared, “I’ll wait outside,” before marching out the door mumbling about ‘keeping others out of their hair.’

With everyone else seated, Peter finally lowered himself into his own chair. He and Jarvis both shuffled to distribute quills and paper, but Tony sat back, cool gaze fixed on Susan, and kept his chin lifted a bit in the air.

“Susan,” Peter started when they were settled, “I’ve explained to King Anthony and to Mister Jarvis the seriousness of the vows Arachnean armsmen take and how critical it is to obey the orders you receive. Can you tell us what King Benjamin’s last order was to you and his other armsmen?”

Susan also did not touch her quill or the paper which had been provided. Her story was cool, and detached, as if she was merely reporting the results of a scouting expedition.

“King Benjamin took myself and the remainder of his private guard, we numbered seventy-seven at the time, to intercept Ferrum’s king on Arachne’s plains. Along the way, he dispatched several units with instructions to protect towns and settlements and to assist refugees to Arachne’s border with Sciath Réalta or to our northern coast — when the harbours remained open to us, that is.”

Peter nodded at this but Tony interrupted before Susan could continue, “Why did he assign his guard to help civilians escape?” Peter worried for a moment that Susan’s insistence on speaking _only_ to him would be taken literally, but when he raised his eyebrows she proceeded to answer the question, albeit never moving her gaze from Peter.

“Our understanding, like that of the rest of the world, was that Ferrum’s warfare was dishonourable and violent. Widows and infants slaughtered in Kunira, lands salted and homes burned across the continent. It was a relief for us to find that, as the war went on, Arachnean citizens were not, for the most part, mistreated.”

Susan paused a moment before adding, and it felt to Peter like little more than a barb to sate her own satisfaction, “However, the fair treatment of civilians does not mean our border was rightly crossed.” Without missing a beat, she directed back to the original question, “The night before King Benjamin made his challenge, he gave his last orders to those of who remained: some would accompany him in the morning and would fight as a rearguard to delay Ferrum’s progress to the capital. The rest of us were given four duties: to protect the Arachnean people, to resist Ferrum’s occupation, and, should the opportunity present itself, to retrieve and protect the Queen Consort and Crown Prince.”

“But the marriage proposal,” Jarvis interjected, drawing Susan’s attention. She pointedly still refused to pay any attention to Tony; Peter could tell the King was seething, perhaps as much at her story as her haughtiness, but Tony did not interrupt or shout.

“When all options had been exhausted, King Benjamin offered marriage between King Anthony and your Prince.” Jarvis said, “ _That_ was his last proposal to us,”

Susan observed Jarvis for a moment, deciding if he was worth answering. Peter was going to voice the question himself to help things along but then she spoke, “His last words to the enemy were not his last orders to us. I had heard of no such plan before the proposal was spoken aloud, I believe it was his very last attempt to secure Prince Peter’s wellbeing.” Her gaze settled on Peter across the table, “Whether or not he wanted it to be, it seems the last thing on his mind was his family.”

“Whether or not he _wanted_ it to be?” Jarvis scoffed, “What else should be on a man’s mind in his final moments except for his family?”

Peter tried to think about whether, in their time together in the past few months, Jarvis had ever mentioned a family. Peter thought he might have a wife, but even if he did have children or others he loved, that didn’t mean he understood the responsibility a king — an _Arachnean_ king — held to his people.

Susan confirmed as much now, “King Benjamin had one vice, but it was not for drink or for coin. It haunted him that he often loved his family over his people. Whether your king can understand love over greed is anyone’s guess, though I deem it unlikely. The point is —”

Before he knew what he was doing, Peter snapped, “He understands love and sacrifice for family better than _most_!” Then his jaw snapped shut and he froze, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. A choked laugh broke from his throat and he lowered his head a bit, reaching to scratch the back of his neck, “Apologies, Susan. I – I shouldn’t have…” He trailed off, fighting the urge to turn to look at Tony and to see the no-doubt stunned look on his face.

“It’s quite alright, Your Grace. Perhaps I was the one to speak out of turn,” Susan smiled and it was one of few actions from her which Peter would call _gentle_. “As a member of his family you have been afforded a more… intimate acquaintance with him.”

Peter wondered at her use of the word _intimate_ , wanted to argue with it. But then, that was probably the last thing worth addressing right now.

“Forget about it,” Tony sniffed, but Peter didn’t know for sure if the King was talking to him or to Susan, “So you and your men fulfilled your duty to the best of your ability. Why did you enter the city yesterday?”

Peter tilted his head to indicate she should answer. Susan crossed her legs one way and then another, clasping her hands at the knee. She scratched her chin in thought, considering what she wanted to say and how to say it. Perhaps she was now reconsidering after Peter’s outburst.

“Well, we had resisted Ferrum’s occupation and protected Arachnean people, but men and supplies ran low,” She hesitated before adding, “And morale, for some,” though she sounded disgusted with this confession. Peter couldn’t blame those people, fighting tooth and nail while the rest of Arachne – Peter included — just… moved on, would be incredibly difficult.

“It became apparent after the Prince’s surrender that Ferrum was no longer a threat to the people. The Queen Consort had passed, and that left one job.” Now Susan fixed her eye on Tony, voice stringent and cold as she seemed to forget her conviction not to speak directly to him, “I have lived a long time; I have heard about your bloody campaigns and your father’s foul reputation — with the Arachnean people safe we decided to rescue the Prince.” She ripped her gaze from Tony to glare out the window, “Bad luck your knight recognised us.”

Tony huffed, “Bad luck or your own incompetence,” but when Peter turned to plead with him for patience, the King held both hands up and shook his head, “Sorry. Please, Peter, proceed.”

Peter turned back to Susan, mind swimming with everything she had said. He remembered having felt the same way about Tony, about Ferrum’s reputation, fearing for his own fate as well as Arachne’s. But so much had been proven wrong, or exaggerated, or twisted by miscommunication. No one spoke for a while, Peter fidgeted under Susan’s gaze and he wondered what she was thinking, if she was disgusted with him for defending Tony, for establishing a rapport with him.

While he gathered his thoughts, Peter reached for his coffee, feeling muddled by the late hour. Before he could speak though, and really he didn’t know what he wanted to say in the first place, Jarvis spoke. “Well, it seems we understand now who was involved and why. But that does not change the matter that you and your fellow soldi — _armsmen_ , refused to stop fighting. The punishment _was_ to be a public hanging, but His Grace had a couple of other options in mind to —”

“Uhh, forget about those, Jarvis.” Tony sat up sharply and waved his hand, “No, those weren’t — well, I want to avoid any executions. Peter, now that everyone’s… _intentions_ have been clarified, would these armsmen be willing to swear to me?”

The thought of asking any of them to bend their knee to the man who killed Ben, the person who their last order said to resist, left Peter feeling nauseous. He didn’t even need to pass the question along before Susan answered.

“I would rather gouge out my remaining eye.”

Jarvis turned away sharply with a hand up to cover his face and Peter entertained the thought that he was holding back laughter. Tony muttered an obscenity under his breath and snapped, “What about swearing to _Peter_ , then?”

There was a pause after this. Peter turned to Tony and asked, “What do you mean?” The King opened and closed his mouth twice, his mind catching up with the offer. Eventually he said,

“I mean, what if they swear this — this special _oath_ , to _you?_ They obey you and your word above all else.”

 _And I obey you per my marriage vow_ , Peter drew his hands under the table and twisted the wedding ring on his finger.

The King shook his head and added, “We could probably use a private guard for you anyway, and if your uncle’s last order was to protect you — doesn’t this help them keep that vow?”

It wasn’t particularly conventional for an Arachnean consort to have armsmen — Peter couldn’t remember if such a thing had _ever_ happened. Peter being beholden to Tony could cause conflicts of interest. But if it was this or execution… and they weren’t in a very conventional situation anyway — just as a consort had never had armsmen, Arachne had never been conquered before.

“Susan?” Peter turned hopefully to the woman, “Would that be agreeable? Could you swear an armsman’s oath to me?”

Susan’s voice was measured and her words were precise when she answered, “As long as you both understand the terms and limits of the vow. I cannot speak for each person, but I would be willing to do so.” For the briefest moment, the tension in the air lifted and Peter felt cool relief flood through him, “But not all of us are as… open-hearted, Prince Peter. Some will not be willing to serve your husband, not even through you. Would you really ask them to choose between the oath and their life?”

It was the sort of challenge Ben would make, and a spot right in the middle of Peter’s forehead ached a little bit. No, he couldn’t ask such a thing, any oath made from an ultimatum like that wouldn’t be an oath at all — it wouldn’t be motivated by loyalty or respect to Peter, it would be Ben’s guards seeking to save their own skin. Peter licked his lips, thinking, conscious of how much give-and-take there had been — and would still be — tonight.

Finally, with some resignation, Peter twisted to face Tony. “The oath won’t be valid if they have to choose between me and execution,” he spoke softly, trying to put as much apology into his voice as possible. He didn’t want to be difficult for the sake of it, he hoped Tony saw that.

Still, the King’s eyes burned, “I can’t just let them go, Peter.”

“I understand,” Peter bobbed his head, “But maybe it’s not a matter of just letting them off…” Peter trailed off.

Across the table, Jarvis coughed gently, “I’m not sure if torture, or any type of Ferrumean justice, is the way keep the city calm right now —”

“No,” Peter shook his head impatiently, “Not Ferrumean justice… But our prenuptial contract says Arachnean citizens are tried under Arachnean law. If an armsman breaks their vow to the King, they go into exile….”

“So we say they must swear to the Prince or they must leave Ferrum’s territories.” Jarvis finished, Peter nodded, his gaze flickering insistently between Susan and Tony. Two of the most stubborn people he’d ever met, they were both quiet for a while.

Jarvis added lightly, “You haven’t made an official decree yet, milord. It will hardly appear weak, much less to the Arachnean people if these are the consequences they expect.”

This made Tony nod. He recited slowly, “So, they either swear their loyalties to _you_ ,” He looked at Peter, “Or they leave our borders and promise never to return.”

Peter hesitated, not wanting to push his own luck on the matter, but suggested, “Could they… if they refuse, can they take their families? It would make the decision of whether to swear to me or not easier, if — if staying with their loved ones weren’t a question.”

“I — fine,” Tony sighed, perhaps more eager to go to bed than anything else, “But this shouldn’t be an easy decision.”

“I know,” Peter nodded hurriedly, “I know, I do. And — and thank you, for your concessions so far. Could they —” He nearly stopped because he was afraid Tony would outright laugh at him, but that seemed unlikely tonight, “We could send them with a bit of coin too. So that starting over, wherever they go… so that they —”

“I’m not going to _pay_ these guardsmen to walk themselves and their families into exile!” Tony hissed, he leaned toward Peter as if he could stop Susan and Jarvis from hearing every word they exchanged, “You want to talk about appearing _weak_ , Peter? _Weakness_ would be capturing rebels and letting them walk away with goddamn _severance_!”

“We don’t need to publicise it!” Peter insisted, “We can add something to the veterans law we’re writing in the meantime. Sending them off without anything to their name is like a death sentence, Tony! We need to protect lives _and_ livelihoods.”

Peter almost winced, certain that he had grossly overstepped and that Tony was about to shout or else retract everything he had agreed to.

Then Tony said slowly, “ _One_ week’s pay.”

“What about one month?” Peter struggled to keep the desperation and emotion from his voice, and added, “One month would be the pay they were owed before Arachne fell.”

Tony’s top lip curled up and he leaned forward so their faces were inches apart, “Two weeks, Peter. That’s it.”

Peter nodded, and turned himself forward again. Susan’s lips were pursed, it reminded him of the way she used to hide smiles when he worked out a difficult solution with Ben or lost a debate with Michelle. But then, there was no reason for Susan to smile like that now.

“S-so,” Jarvis piped up, “They may either swear to Prince Peter, or they must collect their families and possessions and a — erm — _departure fee_ and go into exile?”

“I want all of this settled _tonight_ ,” Tony hissed, and Peter flushed a bit at the realisation of how thin they had worn his patience, “Get the rest of them up here _now_. Take Happy and get Rhodey, we need witnesses. If the armsmen are going to swear or leave, they’ll do it now.”

Jarvis scrambled to his feet and swept out of the room. Susan had turned her gaze to the window again and sat quite still. Peter slumped back in his chair and let out a sigh, secure in the knowledge that no one else was going to lose their life because of lingering warfare.

Then Peter felt a hand on his thigh and he jerked a bit in surprise. He turned to look at Tony, who was peering at him anxiously.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Peter nodded, “I’m just — it’s a relief, is all.” Tony gave a gentle squeeze before standing up.

“I’m going to go help with Rhodey,” The King said, “I’ll be back soon,” and he went out the door. Peter watched him, wondering if Tony hadn’t left in part just to get away from Susan.

“So, it would seem Anthony the Conqueror has a heart.”

Peter laughed and turned to face Susan again. There was something like respect glittering in her eye as she appraised him, “But perhaps I should have guessed that _you_ would be the one to find it,” she mused.

Peter’s voice was a bit tight but he managed to nod. “It wasn’t all — I mean, he _did_ have a family he loved and he’s… he’s trying to do some good things for our country.” Peter shook his head, “It doesn’t excuse him, but I just mean… It wasn’t the horror we expected.”

They heard the door to the office open and the shuffle of footsteps and movement filled the air. Jarvis was speaking, and Peter felt like there was a bit of a skip to his step when he and Happy led the other armsmen into the drawing room.

“Yes, your prince and your commander are right in here. They can clarify if you have any questions as to what I told you. We —”

“Prince Peter!”

Jarvis was cut off by one of the armsmen, a girl not much older than Peter, who downright _squealed_ when they finally laid eyes on him.

Then a jumble of other voices filled the drawing room:

“My Prince, are you well?”

“Prince Peter is this offer true? Can we swear fealty to you?”

“Where is King Anthony?”

“Is that coffee?”

Peter and Susan both stood up while the group filtered in and the urgent hum of voices filled the room. They quieted while Susan and Jarvis explained their compromise in more detail. Standing in a row along the wall, hands clasped behind their backs and focus unwavering on their commander, Peter felt a peculiar ache in his chest. It felt too much like his old life, too much like Ben could walk through the door in a moment to issue an order or dismiss everyone for the night. Peter turned away to blink back the tears which threatened to spill, and let their voices filter out for a moment.

But even without facing the door, without looking at anyone, there was an unmistakable shift in the air when Tony entered. Peter turned back around; everyone watched Tony and Happy settle Rhodey into a chair, and all Peter could hear was the snarl in Tony’s voice, remembering: _These are the people who hurt Rhodey!_

Rhodey had his eyes set on Susan and his lips pulled into a shallow smile.

“General,” Susan nodded curtly to him, “I trust your army is faring well?”

“We’ll be even better now that we can put this fighting behind us,” Rhodey said, then his smile widened and he shook his head a little, “The truth is, I’m only alive because Prince Peter helped to treat my leg. So if this is what he wants, if it can help this country to heal and move on? That’s fine by me.”

Peter felt everyone’s attention shift to him, and the back of his neck started to heat up a bit. Fighting to control his blush, he mumbled, “Thank you, General Rhodes,” And then looked to Jarvis, “Should we get started, then?”

Before Jarvis could answer, one of the armsmen asked, “Does this decision have to be made _tonight_?”

“Yes,” Tony said, and Peter understood that this was something he would _not_ negotiate on, “I want this done immediately.”

Susan said quickly, “I will take the oath to Prince Peter.”

“So will I,” two other men said almost immediately. One of them added, “King Benjamin’s last order was to protect Prince Peter, what better way to fulfil that duty?”

There was a pause and a shift in the room. Then the young girl, now that he thought about it Peter decided she had probably been Ben’s newest armsman, asked, “We are being asked to swear our fealty to Prince Peter. But is the prince not sworn to obey King Anthony as his spouse?”

“I am.” Peter swallowed, fighting not to let his voice shake, “it is good for you to understand that before making this decision.”

Another rather long pause. The girl eyed Tony for a while like he was some sort of exotic animal. Then she cocked her head to the side and said, “Then forgive me, Prince Peter. But I cannot swear an oath to you. I will take my leave of Arac — of _Ferrum_ and its territories.”

“Of course,” Peter nodded, “I understand.” Four others agreed to take the oath. One man confirmed twice with a furrowed brow that he could take his family and decided to go into exile. This left all eyes on the last man, standing closest to the door and staring at his boots.

When he didn’t say anything, Susan cleared her throat, “Barney, we are down to you. I think Prince Peter and King Anthony would like to retire for at least _part_ of the night.”

Barney scowled and lifted his eyes to meet Peter’s. “I think, Commander, that Prince Peter and King Anthony can stand to be up a while longer if it means they might reckon with the consequences of their actions!”

“Barn —”

“Hey —”

“You can’t —”

“Of course I can!” Barney glared at his fellow armsmen, “I can because there is no way I will pledge my service to the boy who sold us out to a monster!”

Susan hissed, “Barney, their union was requested by King Benjamin himself. You _cannot_ —”

“It doesn’t even matter if I can leave with my family or not!” Barney snarled, “You know that, Commander, because I have no family left here!” He turned his eyes on Peter then, “Prince Peter, I hope you realise that whether your uncle wanted it or not, your actions have only justified and excused the atrocities your husband has committed _everywhere_ that he has been! My cousin died fighting in an unprovoked war with _his_ army two years ago, her husband was killed in the aftermath. Their daughter survived and came to live with me. _She_ was killed by a Ferrumean soldier three weeks after Ferrum invaded Arachne!”

“Did she do something to antagonise him?” Happy squinted and Barney twisted to glare at him.

Barney’s voice came out in a low growl when he said, “She kicked at a soldier when he got near her.”

“Well,” Happy crossed his arms and stared at the ground, “Then he probably felt threatened. It was unfortunate but that was —”

“She was ten.”

The armsmen all seemed to know this story already, because they fixed their eyes on the floor or the wall. Happy’s justification died on his lips and Peter felt a sharp, dizzying pain shoot through his head.

 _Your actions have only justified and excused these atrocities_. Peter let out a soft breath of air, and he forced himself to keep his eyes on Barney.

When someone finally found their voice, it was Jarvis who asked, “Do you know who this soldier was?”

Barney turned to fix that cold, deep rage on Jarvis as he hissed, “Do you _really_ think I left that murderer alive?” He scoffed and shook his head as he focused on Peter again, “No, there’s no justice to these terms. There’s no _good_ to be found in what Arachne and what _you,_ Prince Peter, have become!”

Susan sighed, “Barney, it was _not_ Prince Peter’s fault —”

“Has he not married into Ferrum’s royal family?” Barney snapped.

“That’s enough!” Tony barked, drawing every eye to where he stood, his hands clenched on the back of Rhodey’s chair. He levelled his gaze at Barney, “You’ve said your piece. If you will not swear to the prince then you will leave Ferrum tonight.”

Barney’s shoulders hunched a bit, he looked to Peter like a wounded animal with its hackles raised, “Good.”

“Tony, that’s everyone,” Happy coughed, “Seven who need to take this oath.”

“Great, perfect,” Tony shook his head and glanced at Peter, “how do we proceed, Peter?”

Peter swallowed. It was probably the lack of sleep, but he felt dizzy. Barney’s words had reminded him of the day Brad attacked him in the bakery; he rubbed his palms together, feeling a discordant ache in his chest. There was something not quite right about this, about the armsmen swearing to Peter and Peter obeying Tony — Tony who, stray couriers or not, had led ten military campaigns in ten years. Who had personally killed his uncle.

But, then, _of course_ there was something not quite right about this; Peter thought as much as he stepped closer to the men and women prepared to dedicate their lives to him. This wasn’t about finding something completely right, after everything that had happened, after everything that everyone in this room had been through.

This was about finding something close enough.

* * *

Before dawn, Peter and Tony finally made their way back to the royal quarters, seeking just a few hours of sleep before the day started in earnest. Jarvis had promised to move morning engagements before they left the office, and now that they were alone Tony could see how tired Peter was.

The armsmen had made their vows and Peter had arranged quickly for all seven to escort the others to the border with their families. “I’m quite safe here,” Peter had insisted when they uneasily began to protest. “My husband is not going to start another war anytime soon.”

So the armsmen agreed, promising to return to take up their new service within two weeks.

Peter and Tony both stopped once they entered the solar, remembering their argument just hours before. Peter turned immediately toward the bedroom and Tony followed him in. He didn’t want to spend any time flipping through documents in the solar tonight, remembering Peter on his knees and thinking of the little girl the armsman told them about. _She was ten_ kept banging around Tony’s head in that clipped, hard voice. In an army with tens of thousands of soldiers weighed down by the fog of war, it was inevitable to face a tragedy here or there — wasn’t it?

But remembering Peter’s poise and conviction tonight, his insistence on protecting the armsmen and their loved ones and even their _income_ , Tony was starting to wonder whether destruction and confusion wasn’t as much of a given as he used to think.

In the bedroom, Tony put their lantern down on his bedside table and they shuffled around one another, changing with heavy movements and wide yawns. As he climbed into bed, Peter mumbled,

“Thank you, for giving me that opportunity tonight. For letting me…” He smiled and slumped against his pillow as he settled, “For letting them live.”

Tony nodded, climbing into bed on his side to face Peter. He didn’t blow out the lantern yet, he propped himself up on one elbow and said, “That type of loyalty shouldn’t be squandered. I know they’ll protect you, I know the people will be pleased that they’re safe.” Tony chuckled, “Even the oath itself is impressive. I mean they swear _everything_ to you – life and limb and mind. You even said they have to ask to get married!”

“They do!” Peter laughed, “They have to be given permission,”

Tony snorted and shook his head, “Well for your sake I hope they don’t have to ask permission every time they want to bed their spouse.”

Peter laughed again, the sound was uncontrolled and high-pitched; it made the entire bed shake and a blush flood his cheeks. Tony was struck by a memory of the last time he had heard something even close to that sound, when he had eavesdropped on Peter and Brad in the still room. When he had been sure he would never hear a real laugh like that from Peter ever again.

Peter lifted a hand to cover his mouth as he continued to giggle but all he said when he finally spoke was, “That was funny!”

Tony’s lips twitched, “Well, I have my moments.”

In control of himself again, Peter’s eyes softened and Tony thought his blush might have deepened.

“But, Peter,” Tony cleared his throat, not quite certain what he wanted to say yet. “I should be thanking you, really. You’re the reason they’re still alive, you’re the reason they even gave us the time of day. This will be… _better_ , for everyone. Like Rhodey said it — it could help everyone to heal.”

Peter’s eyelids fluttered and he settled further into his pillow, his voice was groggy, “I think it _will_ help,” he mumbled, and his brow furrowed a bit. “I mean, it’s not just that it _can_ do something good. This — this shows that you _did_ something good.”

Tony chuckled, “It wasn’t just me, Peter.” _It was hardly me at all._

“Right,” Peter smiled, “it probably rained tonight, the rains usually have something to do with it too.” Then the Prince started to lift his hand, almost like he was going to touch Tony’s arm or reach for his chest.

Peter stopped though and blinked a few times, as if Tony was turning blurry — maybe he was, in the throes of exhaustion.

“You know, you should wear less black,” Peter yawned,“to celebrate the rain more, because it — it shows up on lighter colours.”

Tony lifted his hand to touch the hem of his black cotton nightshirt, “what do I need to celebrate the rain for?” He asked, but he kept his voice light and quizzical — he didn’t want to risk upsetting or insulting Peter in this sleepy, gentle headspace.

“Umm…” Peter’s brow furrowed in thought, “Well, it’s a long story about a wizard and a spider and… and a king...” Peter trailed off into another big yawn and didn’t finish his thought — probably some sort of old Arachnean legend.

“Tell me tomorrow, then?” Tony whispered, “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight, Tony.”

Tony twisted to blow out the lantern, and Peter rolled onto his side. The Prince kept himself pressed to the opposite side of the bed, his back to Tony, just like every night. But now as Tony settled, he had to fight the urge to reach for Peter. Tony wanted to be closer to him, perhaps even wanted to kiss him or indulge the inappropriate places his mind had wandered to during their argument...

Uncertainty coiling in his stomach, Tony rolled onto his side and put one arm out, freezing as soon as the pads of his fingers touched Peter’s back. He felt Peter tense up and immediately pulled his hand back, voice tumbling out in the darkness, “Peter I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have —”

He cut off when Peter rolled and pressed himself closer to Tony, chest-to-chest and close enough that he could feel the tickle of Peter’s breath on his neck. One of Peter’s legs twined with his and Tony choked on his next breath when the Prince covered Tony’s hand in his. Peter’s fingers were warm, and he settled his forehead against the crook in Tony’s neck.

“That’s alright,” Peter whispered, Tony could hear his voice trembling, “But c-c- could we just —”

“Just this,” Tony said quickly, squeezing Peter’s hand in his, “This is fine. Just —”

“Just this.” Peter finished, and his weight relaxed further as he leaned into Tony and his breath settled into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update, Dec 9: I don't think Chapter 22 will be uploaded on time this week (Thu, Dec 10) sorry folks! But I hope to get it up later this weekend or next Thursday at the absolute latest. I love you all and appreciate you so much ❤️
> 
> Original Author's Note:  
> Oh my gosh. I'm just going to stop talking about long chapter lengths because I guess this is just who I am now 😅  
> That being said, thanks for reading! The boys are cuddling! And they had so much communication and conversation, they're really on the up and up! I think everything is going to be good forever from here on out...  
> So I'll see you all next week! 😉😌  
> -Grace 💜  
> PS Thank you as always to my beta reader Silver Lurker!


	22. Red Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin isn't very happy to find the King is still alive AND the Arachnean rebels are not being punished. It's a real setback. It's downright annoying... no, more than that... it's infuriating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 22 Warnings: Warnings include spoilers so scroll down to the end notes if you'd like to check. A section of this chapter may be very upsetting but it doesn't come out of nowhere. So if, as you're reading, you get worried just scroll down or to the next section and I'll have a summary of the rest of the chapter for you.

Quentin woke up when Victoria untangled herself from his arms, moving slowly to get up in the grey dawn.

He pushed his leg out to catch her ankle and pulled a bit on her wrist.

“Stay in bed?” he mumbled, head thudding back into the pillow as he opened blurry eyes. She stopped, sitting on the end of the bed with her nails tracing the back of his hand.

“I’ve got to work,” Her voice was still thick with sleep and she made to stand up again, but Quentin clamped his hand around hers, “Quen, stop! You’re being immature!”

“You don’t need to get up yet, c’mon,” Quentin buried his smile in his pillow and wondered how Peter was able to make his eyes look so innocent and adorable — that would certainly be useful right now,“Hey, love, just a few more minutes.”

Ignoring him, Victoria stood up and swayed across the room to the window. Quentin closed his eyes, comforted that at least _he_ didn’t have to get up this early. He’d been hoping for one more good fuck out of her — it was only a matter of time now until he could take Peter to bed instead — but it didn’t really matter, did it?

Victoria gasped, “Oh, Quen! Look at how pretty it is!” Quentin growled when she opened the window, blasting the room with a stream of cold autumn air. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and nestled more firmly into the mattress, wondering if Peter would ever be this inconsiderate so early in the morning.

“Quen, I’m serious!” He peeked one eye open and watched as Victoria stuck her hand outside. Then she mercifully closed the window again and returned to sit on the edge of the bed, cupping her hands together and thrusting them toward him.

Quentin reluctantly pushed himself up on one elbow and glanced at the pale pink rainwater she was holding. He forced half a smile and met her eyes, “Yeah, it’s pretty.”

“I like how it looks with the sunlight coming in,” Victoria twisted back toward the window, “What d’you suppose the Arachneans would say about it? I think pink’s a romantic colour, don’t you?”

Quentin didn’t answer; he fixed his eyes on the window behind Victoria and wondered how much time they had before the whole castle was in an uproar. He hoped Peter had understood when he talked about an _act of God_ saving the Arachnean soldiers, and he’d done well at pretending to get along with the King so he ought to believably act the part of a horrified widower. Still, Quentin wondered if there was anything he could do to help, perhaps he could assist in providing an alibi, maybe he should even get rid of Riva — lest the doctor recognise elements of the very poison Quentin had asked him to identify.

Then again, Quentin had to curb his own excitement just a touch. It was entirely possible that King Anthony might still be alive, and within the next hour the Arachnean rebels would be put to death. That would certainly be a setback, a less-than-ideal outcome, but it would serve to remind Peter how much he hated his husband. Quentin could dry his tears, offer the Prince some comfort, maybe even lay the groundwork for more explicitly encouraging Peter to use the poison.

Quentin couldn’t help the grin which slid onto his lips; it was always thrilling to scheme with someone. Peter was hardly a devious, wily person — but still, he would understand better than anyone else why King Anthony deserved to die.

“What’re _you_ smiling about?” Victoria giggled as she started to climb carefully off the bed. In answer, Quentin grabbed her waist and pulled her close, jostling her hands apart so the rainwater she was holding splattered onto their legs.

“Just thinking about you,” Quentin purred, “You know you’re the most beautiful woman in this castle?” As he spoke, he moved to press his lips to her jaw; his fingers trailed up her back and he put his hand on the back of her head, finally pulling her to face him fully and kiss her on the lips.

“Quen,” She stopped him with a hand on his chest, her forehead against his. “I really do need to go, I can’t right now.”

Quentin stifled his sigh while she hopped off the bed. He watched her move around the room, enjoying what remained of the view as she changed. He consoled himself that Peter surely wasn’t this selfish; Peter would be open to a morning rolling between the sheets; he would blush when Quentin asked about trying new things but would still agree; the Prince was demure and kind and soft and affectionate and —

Well, he was very nearly perfect.

And, Quentin thought as he followed Victoria out of bed to get dressed and prepare for the day, he might not have to wait that much longer. Peter would hesitate, would argue about grieving times and whether it was _appropriate_ , but they could always keep things quiet. He wasn’t going to miss the King, after all. And Quentin _knew_ that Peter was attracted to him — he was just stuck, tangling himself in propriety and reservations that didn’t matter.

Victoria apologised as they made their way to the kitchens together. She smiled up at him and twined her hand in his and offered to make a special dinner and said maybe they could go into town in the afternoon. His answer died on his lips as they stepped into a dining hall buzzing with activity.

Quentin was used to a handful of people present in the early morning — and sometimes no one at all except for kitchen staff going in and out. This morning, he felt a moment of satisfaction — this crowd of servants and pages and soldiers was likely assembled because a mass execution, or some other ‘terrible’ tragedy, had been announced.

But then Quentin locked his eyes on the woman in the middle of the room and his heart dropped into his stomach.

The Arachnean general — no, not general, but a commander of some kind? — set her steel grey eye on him but she didn’t move from the group she was standing with. All ten of them were there, most of them eating and chatting in animated voices. They wore new clothes and shiny boots and large leather bags were dropped at their feet. The commander turned away when a servant tapped her on the shoulder, holding out a stack of papers for her.

“Do you know who they are?” Quentin jumped when Victoria’s hand landed on his upper arm and he looked down at her, suddenly aware of the cold break of sweat on his back and how fast his heart was racing. Before he could answer, Victoria shook her head, “I guess it’s none of our business anyway. Do you want to come in? Or I’ll just see you later?” She tilted her head toward the door to the kitchen.

“No — I’ll… You go on. I’ll see you later, love.” Quentin’s throat was dry but Victoria went onto her toes to peck his cheek before leaving. The Arachnean woman was eyeing him again, her focus unsettling and frustrating. All he could think about was that cold crimson rain and a crack of lightning illuminating her face across the battlefield.

Since he hadn’t moved from the doorway, the next person to step inside nearly rammed into Quentin’s back. Before they could move, he grabbed the boy’s wrist and dragged him out of the dining hall. He crowded the kid against the wall and hissed, “ _What_ is going on in there?”

“I-I- K-K-King’s orders, Sir Quentin, Sir!” The boy’s eyes went wide and his shoulders hunched as Quentin’s grip on his arm tightened, “Th-They’re to be outfitted for travel and th-th-they’re leaving for a few weeks before returning for their service!”

“Their _service_?” Quentin snarled, “What damn _service_? They’re rebel soldiers! They’re _criminals!_ ”

“Not anymore.” Quentin whirled, letting go of the servant and curling his lip to snap at the person who’d interrupted them. But the anger drained out of him when he came face to face with the Arachnean commander. She was taller than him, which was unusual and _irritating_. Quentin shuffled his feet and squared his shoulders as he faced her.

“I suppose you might call us _colleagues_ , now.” The woman drew her lips into a thin, strained smile. She kept her hands clasped behind her back and didn’t offer her name. “Ferrum’s King and Prince Consort were able to come to an agreement overnight. Myself and the other Arachneans were allowed to swear an oath to Prince Peter, those who refused to swear will go into exile.”

 _An agreement_.

An agreement _overnight_.

Something hot and searing raced through Quentin’s veins and he struggled to fix a smile onto his lips, one equally as false as hers.

“Well,” Quentin rasped a bit and had to clear his throat, “I can’t say I’m surprised, I’m just glad the fighting is over. Hopefully we can put any… animosity behind us.” He all-but-winced when he extended his hand, “Sir Quentin Beck,”

“Yes, we’ve met before Sir Beck. I am Susan Úlfsdóttir,” She didn’t move to shake his hand. Her lip twitched the slightest bit, “If a knighthood in Ferrum is well-earned, then I think we will get along just fine. But I must help with preparations now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Then the woman turned on her heel and marched back into the dining hall. Quentin watched her go, the buzz in his head roiling and churning into a dull roar.

King Anthony was not dead _and_ the Arachnean rebels were getting off scot-fucking-free.

How annoying… no, how _infuriating_. What the hell was Peter _thinking_? What did he _do?_ And _how?_ Quentin’s right fist opened and closed furiously, and even though he hadn’t eaten anything yet there was a sour and bitter taste in his mouth. An agreement slapped together overnight? That was ridiculous — it was _scandalous_.

He felt a horrible anger spreading through his veins the longer he thought about it. What had Peter offered in the middle of the night that would change the King's mind? Had the King accepted that first suggestion, or just taken further advantage of the Prince and how sweet and vulnerable he was?

Peter was such a good person — he was kind and smart and looked out for people, so _of course_ he had wheedled his way into some half-baked compromise that left _everyone else_ happy. Poison — murder — would _never_ have been his first choice if he could trade his body instead.

It was disgusting. Peter didn’t love King Anthony, he didn’t _want_ him — the man was almost old enough to be _his father_. Peter didn’t care about him, probably overtly _hated_ him. But the poor little thing was getting confused, wrapped up in his morals and so eager to please, he just needed help to see the bigger picture.

And Quentin could help with that. Quentin could _prove_ to Peter that they were in love, he just needed to ease the kid’s fears, just needed to lower his inhibitions a bit and _show_ him how much they could love each other.

Peter would be reticent, he always was. But he’d proven that he wasn’t as chaste as he seemed. He would see that Quentin was right, and _then_ they could focus on getting rid of the King once and for all.

* * *

Peter slept late the morning after their negotiation with the armsmen. He was aware of Tony getting up, gently untangling himself from Peter as he quietly got ready. Peter stayed in bed, thinking that he _ought_ to get up too, but his mind was still fuzzy from the late night and their bed was warm and —

And comforting? Was that right? The very bed that Peter used to lie awake in — picking at scabs and jumping every time Tony moved — was now a space he felt _comforted_ by? It even felt a bit emptier, a bit lonely, without Tony pressed against him.

It was a strange enough feeling, a strange enough direction for his thoughts, that Peter _did_ get up not long after Tony — if just to quell the confusing dissonance in his heart and brain. Tony had invaded his country, he was _the reason_ that Ned and MJ and his aunt and uncle were dead. But he’d also agreed to Peter’s requests for the armsmen and their well-being, he was working on improving the country’s infrastructure and legislation and he… he even seemed to be bettering _himself_ , or perhaps he was finally healing from wounds inflicted ten years ago.

Despite all the uncertainty he was feeling, Peter still roused himself, ate a late breakfast alone, and met with Jarvis like any other day. Brad was already in the office and said his vigil went well, he listened politely and stifled his yawns while they filled him in on everything that had happened the night before.

With the Arachnean resistance behind them, Tony joined them for part of the afternoon — their conversations about laws and foreign policy felt completely open now, and the air Peter breathed almost seemed _cleaner_.

Tony dismissed him in the late afternoon. He cited their lack of sleep, said that Peter deserved to retire early and get some rest and promised to join him in their quarters before it got too late. Peter was too tired to argue or insist on staying, so he bid Jarvis goodbye, told Brad to go home early, and returned to the royal quarters.

His mind was still whirling from everything last night, but Peter didn’t hesitate to go to the still room. There was something he needed to do _now_.

He set a fire in the hearth and retrieved his box of poison notes off the shelf.

Peter sat down by the fire and fed the papers to the hearth one at a time. He watched the ink bleed and the edges of the paper curl; with each page that went from the box to the flames, he felt a tension leaving his body. Not just a weight in his shoulders or piercing his back or heavy in his heart, but something deeper was soaring outward. Some dark piece of anger and fear was releasing itself with every exhale as he watched the fire crackle, spit, and then calm as it burned the traces of his sin to ash.

When he was done, Peter poked at the embers and thought tiredly about the things he could work on with the daylight that remained — about what he _ought_ to do this evening, about his sprouting lemon trees and how secure Tony’s arms had felt around him last night. Peter rolled his shoulders to keep himself awake on this lazy, strange, late afternoon. It took a while to push his body back into motion, and then he filled the box with the books that belonged back in the library.

Eager to purge the still room from any remnants of the dark plot, Peter hoisted the box in his arms and carried it from the royal quarters.

He didn’t see anyone on his way to the library, and his legs felt heavy climbing up to the loft. He put the books away one by one and tucked the empty box back underneath the bench.

He paused then, eyes fixed out the bay window. The sky was turning purple as the sun began to set, Peter watched a grey cloud scuttle across hues of indigo and dark blue — it looked almost like a bruise.

He stood there a while, watching the light change and the sun dip lower. The moon began to peek out over the horizon.

“Hi Peter,”

Peter turned around a bit too quickly, feeling like he’d been caught even though there was nothing for him to be guilty of anymore. Beck stood at the top of the library steps.

Beck strolled forward without Peter answering, holding up a wine bottle and two stemless glasses. “It’s a little cold out for my taste but still a beautiful night,” Beck smiled at him and Peter felt his muscles relaxing a bit. He sat down on the edge of the bench as Beck reached him, gaze still fixed out the window.

Peter asked, “Does it get this cold in Ferrum?”

“Oh yes, and it’s not nearly as lovely to look at.” Beck turned to face Peter more fully and held one of the wine glasses out to him, “So, I was impressed to hear about the resistance, I guess God was on our side last night.”

He said it with a cheeky little smile, and Peter tried to offer a grin of his own but the knowledge of what he’d almost done, how close he’d come to _murder_ , left his stomach lurching a bit, almost like claws hooking into him from the inside out.

Finally, when he’d been quiet for too long and realised how _proud_ Beck looked, Peter mumbled, “I — it wasn’t just me who saved them. The armsmen had to agree, and the King was the one who suggested they swear their oath to me in the first place.”

Something in Beck’s eyes shifted and Peter remembered that he had _fought_ the Arachnean armsmen, that he had barely escaped with his life. But as soon as the shadow was there, Beck put on that warm smile again and lifted the bottle of wine he was holding.

“Well, suppose we celebrate your victory a little bit?” He chuckled, “It ought to warm us up in any case.”

Peter nearly protested that he hadn’t eaten dinner yet; he wanted to explain about his late night and ask to just eat and go to bed. But as dark clouds continued to shift over the fading light outside, a glass of wine with a friend sounded okay. It sounded downright _nice,_ he hadn’t spent much time with Beck lately anyway.

“What kind of wine is it?” Peter asked as he sat down on the right side of the window. He held his glass out as Beck tipped the bottle to fill it; the wine was dark red, the colour so deep that it made Peter think of a garnet. He had to pull his arm back for Beck to stop pouring.

“It’s from Ferrum, I think a cabernet?” Beck raised his eyebrows and made a show of exaggeratedly peering at the bottle before filling his own glass, “Doesn’t matter so long as it’s wine, right? It’ll get the job done.”

Peter blushed a bit at this comment — the insinuation that alcohol had one use and it was for drunkenness. Uncle Ben would have scoffed at this and lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed with the idea that intoxication was a goal at all. But still Peter lifted the glass to his lips. The wine was bone dry and had a peculiar burn, like it was scraping along the back of his throat. He kept his face neutral though and pulled his lips into a thin smile, “Thanks.” He struggled not to cough and took another sip — even with all of his training in etiquette, he twisted his face toward the window and hid his grimace with one arm.

Beck surprised him when he seated himself right next to Peter, so they were less than a foot from one another. Peter leaned his back on the wall next to the window. He moved so he was sitting with his legs crossed on the bench; he stared at where the toe of one foot touched Beck’s thigh.

“Do you think it will rain tonight?” Beck tilted his head toward the window but never took his eyes off of Peter. Peter looked outside, the sky was all magenta and plum colours dotted with storm clouds.

“It seems like it will,” Peter rasped, taking another burning sip from his glass. He didn’t want to be pompous about the wine or make Beck feel bad, but it was probably the worst drink he’d ever had. Beck looked down at his hands, then took a huge gulp of his own.

“I… I don’t want to say the wrong thing,” Beck let out a breathy laugh and wouldn’t meet Peter’s eyes, “I just… I wanted to tell you, Peter, that I really admire everything you’ve done since we came here. We… we upended your entire life, killed so many of the people you loved, burned your cities and hurt your people,” Peter fought not to choke on his next swallow of wine, why the hell was Beck bringing this up? What was the point in dwelling on the messy past he couldn’t change? Peter wondered how to delicately ask Beck to stop, or to change the subject, but the knight just went on, “And through _all of it_ you just keep… keep _going_ and keep _fighting_ — even when you have to share a bed with…” Beck shook his head,“Like I said, I don’t want to get myself in trouble here but I…” He finally lifted his eyes to meet Peter’s, soft blue nudging around Peter’s brain and filling the space between them, “It’s impressive, Peter. At every turn you keep… You do something else new and amazing and incredible.”

Peter could feel his cheeks and even the tips of his ears warming considerably and he looked down at the dark pool in his wine glass.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, or bring up bad memories.” Beck sighed, “I’m just trying to tell you that… despite the pain and ugliness involved, I’m really glad we met. I’m really happy I’ve gotten to know you.”

“Thank you,” Each word sounded a bit flat to Peter so he cleared his throat, “I’m really glad we met too. You—” Peter stopped when Beck shifted, leaning closer as he refilled their glasses. Peter watched, flicked a small, grateful smile to Beck, and drank again. Beck downed half his glass immediately so Peter tried taking a bigger gulp and then had to cover his mouth not to retch it back up.

When he pulled the glass away from his lips, he and Beck were both staring at where Beck’s hand was resting on Peter’s knee. Their eyes met and, without saying anything, Peter pulled his leg out of reach and shifted so both his feet were on the floor again. Still, Beck was sitting pretty close to him so he had to press himself more into the wall to create more space.

Outside, thunder made the windowpane shudder and they listened as rain began to fall.

“Hang on,” Beck drained his glass and stood up, “I’m going to get us a candle or something,” he disappeared down the steps and Peter sighed, lifting a shaking hand to push his hair back from his forehead. One fingernail tapped on the wine glass but he didn’t turn his focus from the steps, wondering how to tell Beck that this couldn’t happen.

Beck was handsome, sure. And he was kind and he had been open and honest with Peter when no one else was. But, just like Ferrum invading Arachne and everything else that had happened in the past few months, it didn’t change the fact that Peter was married. He was a prince and if anything happened between them then Beck could very easily get hurt... But maybe Peter was leaping to the wrong conclusion? What about all that stuff regarding Ferrum’s invasion and how horrible the war had been? Why would Beck have brought that up if he was trying to initiate something romantic?

Peter sipped anxiously at his wine again; then he winced at the bitter, sour flavour and just put the glass down.

Beck emerged at the top of the steps, precariously balancing a lit candle in either hand. He put one down on a shelf to Peter’s left and placed the other carefully on the opposite end of the bench. The rain had come on stronger now, pouring outside with a roar; it seemed to make the flames shudder even inside.

Beck sat down right next to Peter again with a purr, “That’s better right? Now we can really see each other.” And he put one hand on Peter’s upper thigh, squeezing gently.

Trapped between Beck and the wall, Peter used one hand to peel Beck’s fingers away from his leg. He took a deep breath, “Beck, I’m sorry if there’s been a misunderstanding, but we can’t —”

Then Beck kissed him.

Peter gasped the slightest bit and jerked backwards, but his head just hit the wall and Beck pressed closer, biting his bottom lip and putting a hand again on Peter’s leg.

With heat burning up every inch of his body, Peter lifted both hands to Beck’s chest to push him back. Panting, Peter gasped, “Beck, we _can’t_. This isn’t appropriate, I’m —”

“It’s fine Peter,” and then Beck’s hands were wrapped around both of his, giving a reassuring squeeze as he tucked Peter’s arms back down, “It’s okay, this is going to be wonderful, I promise. And I won’t tell anyone, this’ll be just for _us_ ,” Beck ducked forward again, tongue pushing between Peter’s lips and filling his head with the scent and taste of wine again. One arm snaked around Peter’s waist and pulled him closer; suddenly Peter didn’t feel the least bit safe surrounded by Beck’s sheer height and muscle.

“Beck, stop!” Peter’s voice was muffled because he practically shouted this into Beck’s mouth; Peter’s voice was trembling as he repeated, “Stop, I said stop!” And he realised he was shaking, his mind was blurred by alcohol and the darkness pressing around them. He felt muddled by the rain lashing the window and dark thoughts bubbling up in the recesses of his memories.

“ _Why_?” Beck snarled, he didn’t let go and his voice was so sharp that the question landed like a whip, making Peter gasp and tears spring to his eyes, “Because you’re _married?_ That’s a _sham_ , Peter! You said it yourself on your damn wedding night — it’s not real! He doesn’t deserve you, doesn’t _care_ about you… Not like _I_ do!”

And all over again, Beck was on him. He was all Peter could taste and smell; desperately, Peter tried to launch to his feet, tearing himself away from Beck, whose teeth tore against his bottom lip. Peter choked on his sob and stumbled toward the steps babbling, “I’m sorry — I’m sorry — I think we —'' but then he lurched, feet fumbling on the floor. Before he could fall, a hand on his wrist yanked him back hard and the world spun with him, leaving him dizzy as Beck pulled him against his chest again.

“Come _on_ , Peter, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. I mean you fucking _owe_ me this!” Peter shook his head, confusion welling up in his chest as Beck tugged him toward the bench, his grip on Peter’s wrist was bruising and forceful.

“Beck, no, I don’t —” Peter hiccuped and stumbled as Beck yanked him around. He tripped over his own feet and they both tumbled to the floor when Peter’s weight dropped. Peter groaned when he hit his head but then Beck was straddling him and pressing him down. Beck’s lips went to his collarbone.

“I’m so much better than him,” Beck hissed against his neck, hands trailing to Peter’s waist again. “I’m gonna prove it to you Peter, I’m gonna satisfy you so much more.”

Tony, he was talking about Tony. Still flushed and now feeling sluggish and disoriented, Peter shook his head furiously back and forth. God, he wished Tony was _here_.

“We haven’t — I never — p-p-please don’t —”

Beck _laughed_ , the sound burning into Peter’s chest, “You’re full of shit, Peter.” He snarled, grip even harder on Peter’s hips. Peter lifted his arms up again but they felt heavy and pushed uselessly on Beck’s chest; Beck shifted, using one hand to pin Peter’s crossed wrists above his head and the other to fumble with the laces of Peter’s pants.

“You expect me to believe,” Beck growled, heaving with exertion and inebriation,“that you didn’t get down on your knees for that _act of God_? That you didn’t whore yourself out for those soldiers? That you didn’t use these pretty lips and your clever tongue to _get_. _Them_. _Off_?” In a different state of mind, Peter would have been embarrassed by the mewl which escaped his lips as he continued to shake his head no.

“I didn’t — I _didn’t_ , Beck. It was just a — just a _meeting!_ ” Gasping for air, Peter turned away and squeezed his eyes shut, wondering why his whole body felt so weighed down and why Beck’s grip was so tight and why Beck wasn’t _listening_ to him. Beck was his friend, wasn’t he? Could he not see that Peter was confused and upset and sick? Did that mean nothing compared to this?

Had Beck ever cared for him at all?

Peter whimpered when Beck kissed him again, firm but not as messy this time. His hips were rocking gently against Peter’s and Beck slowed down. The hand on his pants came up to cradle the back of Peter’s head; he seemed to soften a bit.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” He whispered against Peter’s lips, “This isn’t going to be bad, Peter. I just love you so much, I want you to see how much I love you.”

Peter didn’t know if it was the wine or the offensive words, but Beck’s voice made him want to gag. He sniffled and turned his head away, he shuddered when Beck thumbed away the tears under his eyes.

“My Prince, look at me.”

Beck pressed his lips to Peter’s jaw and sucked gently, his hand moving again to brush over Peter’s groin before lifting the hem of his shirt.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter remembered the last time he’d been pinned down like this. The bright sunlight and red stones, the taste of salt on his lips while sand rubbed against his skin.

_“My Prince, look at me … You know what to do, Peter.”_

Shaking as he was, and with a stomach full of sour, burning wine, Peter swallowed hard when he lifted his eyes to meet Beck’s. Beck smiled gently down at him; he was bigger than MJ, and looked a bit out of focus. The first time Peter bucked his hips up, not much happened. He bit his bottom lip and tried again, squirming at the sly smile that spread across Beck’s face.

“See, now you’re getting it, Peter. This isn’t so bad, right?” Peter’s palms and fingertips prickled as Beck let go of his wrists, moving to hold Peter’s waist again. Peter’s lips felt sore when Beck kissed him again, like he was trying to force Peter through the floor or steal all the air from his lungs.

Head reeling, Peter closed one hand into a fist, bent his legs at the knees, and then thrust his right hip upward. He moved harder this time, more forceful as he grabbed Beck’s shoulder to pull himself into a seated position and flip them over.

Beck grunted when Peter rolled, then gargled and coughed as Peter threw a punch, landing squarely in Beck’s throat before Peter untangled their legs and scrambled off of him.

Peter nearly sprinted for the stairs, falling into the railing and clinging to it as he lurched down the steps and to the library door. He thought maybe Beck was shouting after him but he couldn’t hear what was said beyond the rush of blood in his ears and his own desperate gasps for air.

Peter threw the library door open and lurched into a blast of frigid wind. Gooseflesh erupted on every part of his body and in seconds he was soaked under a rain that felt slick and icy. It was too dark to see anything at all; Peter stumbled a few feet from the library doors before he fell to his knees and stuffed his hand down his throat.

The wine had burned going down, now it felt like a fire was lit in his stomach as it dragged its way back up. The sting of acid filled his mouth and made his eyes water as he bent over, gagging himself over and over again to expel as much of the vile liquid as he could. His tears were hot compared to the freezing rain but he didn’t know if he was shaking more because of Beck or the cold. When Peter heaved up nothing but a croak of empty air, he meant to stand up and fumble back toward the castle, but he couldn’t tell which way was which in such a heavy darkness. Instead of standing, Peter wrapped his arms around his middle and bent over, continuing to sob as the stench of wine and vomit mingled with that cruel laugh and Beck’s bruising touch.

“Hello?”

Peter’s head whipped up and he peered around through the rain, squinting as he slowly stood up. Somewhere ahead of him, he saw the flicker of a lantern and lifted his voice to call,

“Hello? Can you help me?”

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, Peter could barely make her out when she reached him but she lifted her lantern and gasped, “Oh my — Prince Peter! Are — are you alright?”

“‘M fine,” Peter slurred and took a lurching step toward her, “I’m fine, can you please just — I’m sorry but I —” Another wave of nausea hit and Peter doubled over again with a moan.

“Oh,” The woman hesitated and then stepped closer and Peter felt a gentle hand on his back, “Th- that’s alright, Your Grace. Happens to everyone, you know?” She giggled and held the lantern up a bit higher, in the shallow light Peter could see now that it was such a dark night because the rain pouring down around them was pitch black. “Alright, Prince Peter. Let’s get you back to the castle, I’ll take you to your quarters,” One arm went around him and helped Peter to straighten as she led him through the rain across the castle grounds.

“Thank you,” Peter mumbled, “Thank you, wh – what’s your name?”

“Victoria, Your Grace.” And so Peter let Victoria lead him to the castle and navigate the quietest halls to reach the royal quarters. He thanked her over and over again and apologised over and over again and she shook her head, insisted that it was fine — it was _normal_ — and that he shouldn’t worry about a thing. He was not quite aware of them reaching the royal quarters and Victoria helping him to the bedroom, but he felt a bit disappointed to find that Tony wasn’t there yet — not that he wanted to explain the state he was in.

Victoria helped him strip down to his smallclothes, dry off the black marks on his skin, and climb into bed. Then, maybe after just a few minutes or a few hours, Peter jerked awake when something clinked on the bedside table.

“Oh, sorry Your Grace!” Victoria smiled at him as he lifted his head and blinked at her. She gestured to the table, “I just brought a cup of water and there’s a plate, umm, it’s just crackers and some nuts and a — and a bit of jerky. You should sleep now, though.”

Peter nodded blearily and croaked out a hoarse, “Thank you.” He stretched one hand out, but found the other side of the bed empty.

“Victoria…?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Could…” Peter swallowed, his head was still swimming, “Could you get To — King Anthony? Or… just… tell him…” Peter stopped and lifted a hand to his mouth, fearing for a moment that he was going to be sick again.

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll let him know and ask if he can come soon,”

Then the bedroom door opened and shut and Peter was in darkness again. But this — a dry, warm bed with Tony on the way — this was a type of dark that Peter liked. Even though everything was spinning, he pulled the blankets up to his chin and nestled back into the pillow, the faces of Beck and Victoria weaving behind closed eyelids.

* * *

Tony spent too long watching the rain out his office window, mind fuzzy and sluggish from exhaustion. The night itself had been pretty, the sunset dark but the colours still vibrant and exquisite. But the black rain splattering the window, looking almost like sludge as it came down in sheets, it didn’t look the least bit beautiful. Surely even Peter could admit that a black rain was nothing to be impressed with.

Then again, the rains here all had stories and meanings behind them, didn’t they? A black birth or death rain would have called for an onyx on Michelle Jones’ grave; maybe there was some good meaning or story to every colour of rain Arachne had to offer.

Tony remembered now that Peter was going to tell him a story, an old legend about a wizard and a spider and the rains. He smiled at the thought of an evening with Peter, of a hot cup of tea with the fire roaring in front of them and the dark rain at their backs, of swapping stories and soft laughter. He could ask again about King Benjamin’s writings, too. He could tell Peter more about his fears with Ferrum’s intelligence network, the Prince would probably have good ideas about how to help. And, tired as he was, Tony was also just looking forward to crawling into bed with Peter beside him.

Tony turned away from the window, exhaustion tugging at each movement, and picked up his agenda and a candle from the desk.

He made his way around the desk but stopped short when he opened the door. About halfway down the hall, Beck stood next to a young woman, they were facing each other and speaking in low voices, both damp from the dark rain outside.

“I’ll tell him,” Beck said, “Of course, okay. I’ll see you soon, love,” He started to lean forward, like maybe he was going to kiss her on the forehead, but he caught sight of Tony and instead turned to face his king.

The girl, a servant if Tony had to guess, touched Beck’s arm, glanced furtively at Tony, and whispered “Thank you” before scurrying away down the hall.

“Milord,” Beck flushed with relief as he made his way toward Tony, “I’m glad I caught you before you retired for the night. I’m sorry to come so late, but I’m afraid this can’t wait. Do you have a few minutes?” Beck leaned his head back toward the office door. Tony hesitated, he was dead tired but his head buzzed at the urgency of _I’m afraid this can’t wait_.

“I — yes, come in.” Tony turned to stride back into his office and Beck followed him, rubbing his hands together anxiously and fiddling with a black scarf wrapped around his neck.

Tony turned to him expectantly but Beck’s eyes kept darting around, never meeting Tony’s gaze. Finally, he clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head to stare at his feet, his voice almost cracked when he spoke, “Milord, like I said, I’m sorry to bother, but I’m just worried…” He paused now and reached into his vest to withdraw a handful of yellow papers. They were folded over twice and Beck smoothed them out with trembling hands, “I ask that you accept my profuse apology, and I’m willing to accept whatever punishment may come, but I took these from the Prince Consort. He has been working on this project for some time, but he won’t answer questions about it.”

“You took Peter’s things?” Tony narrowed his eyebrows and snapped the papers out of Beck’s hands. The knight took in a shaky breath and nodded, his head bobbing up and down. He was still too nervous to look Tony in the eye.

“I did, milord, and I’m — I’m _terribly_ sorry. It’s just… he’s been working on this since we arrived here and never tells anyone what it is. I grew concerned by some of the glimpses I saw, _hemlock_ for example — there.” Beck held a hand out to point and Tony looked at the notes.

He recognised Peter’s handwriting, how the words were scrunched a bit too close together and each letter and line was drawn with sharp precision.

 _Hemlock: Muscular paralysis_ / _cough. Do not give to women or children. Less effective exposed to heat._

 _“_ Hemlock is poisonous, isn’t it?” Tony looked up, “And not just with women and children?”

Beck’s eyes flickered and he reached to shuffle the papers to put a new one on top. This was a list of over a dozen ingredients and amounts; there were equations drafted and crossed out then attempted again at the bottom. Tony’s eyes trailed to the spots of ink where Peter had tapped his quill, imagined him tucking his bottom lip under his teeth and puffing his cheeks out as he thought.

_Hemlock… cinnamon… ginger… honey… infuse in hot water._

“Is this a… tea recipe?” Tony tried to hide the uncertainty tingeing his voice.

“I don’t know about tea, milord, but I did go to William Riva first. He assured me these ingredients could be used to treat a nervous mind or soothe a cough but —” A knock on the door made Tony turn, he was about to shout for them to be left alone but Beck jumped for the doorknob.

“I asked Riva here, Your Grace, if I may…?” Tony nodded and Beck opened the door, hurrying the small man into the office. Riva bowed to Tony and nodded to Beck, reaching to adjust his glasses on his nose as he peered around the office, it was probably the first time he’d been in here.

Beck let out a heavy sigh and his voice was weary, “Riva, tell King Anthony what you told me. About the papers I brought you.”

Riva glanced at Tony’s hands and fiddled with his glasses again just as Beck fidgeted to secure his scarf. Tony couldn’t help but think about Beck being friends with Peter, about how _likeable_ the Prince was, about —

“Well, as I told you Sir Quentin, this formula at this dosage creates a very dangerous poison. The spices mask the flavour of the opium and odor of the hemlock, the ginger would prevent nausea brought on by the poison, the victim would fall asleep and eventually stop breathing. Death would be swift and painless. It’s a clever little concoction.”

A clever little concoction indeed, and one that came from a clever little mind that had been underestimated for too long. Tony found himself turning away, his eyes were sore and his mind hummed with a tired energy. He crossed to the desk and put the poison recipe down, mind whirling as he lifted each page and looked at the detailed notes and careful calculations.

Beck’s voice was a bit strained when he prompted, “In your professional opinion, Riva, who would be the best person for us to consult further about the notes?”

“Well, Prince Peter!” Riva lifted a hand with his declaration, “He knows the local ingredients listed. The spices vary, but the hemlock is easy enough to find, it’s grown here in the castle gardens, and there ought to be seeds left on the stalks this time of year.Although, I expect the Prince wouldn’t have much to say about the opium access. I haven’t seen opium in _years_ —”

“Because of Steven Rogers’ embargo?” Beck asked, fixing his gaze on Tony with a thin smile, as if apologising for the doctor’s ramblings.

Tony looked back at him, he wondered if Peter had told Beck about writing to Sciath Réalta. In any case, as a knight Beck knew some things that Riva didn’t, it felt like he was challenging Tony to connect the dots without having to say anything out loud.

“Yes,” Riva murmured, “It would need to come from King Steven.” Then he shook his head, “But I reassured Sir Quentin, Your Grace, there’s no way for anyone beyond his borders to access opium. So the poison itself, as impressive as it is, is moot.”

Tony looked back down at the desk, his heart pounding faster and faster in his chest. He couldn’t shake off Happy’s voice ringing in his head: _for all we know the kid’s figured out how to ‘take care’ of Tony by now._

And he had _given_ Peter, an _enemy_ by most accounts, that key to the still room — a private workspace with any number of resources for him to take advantage of. He had given Peter free rein of the castle and his time. They had sat together night after night drinking tea, lulling Tony into a false sense of security.

_May I add a personal note? I just want to ask how they are._

Peter had requested that when they wrote to Rogers. And Tony, idiot that he was, _let_ Peter do it. He had _left_ him there to write out any number of secret messages, pleas, or offers. An opium trade might be the least of his worries. Had all of this been fake? Every sweet laugh and tender touch and difficult project? Had everything between them just been crocodile tears and insincere smiles?

Had Peter ever cared for him at all?

“Milord, are you alright?”

Tony lifted his head, each heartbeat felt too loud in his ears and too hard in his chest. No, he was far from alright. Confusion gave way to frustration, a glimmer of sadness, and then anger. Tony curled his hand into a fist, the top page of Peter’s neat, deceitful handwriting crumpling between his fingers.

He had let Peter _in_. Had taken care of him when he was sick, told him about his brand, held him when he cried, given in to every one of those stupid demands for those soldiers who should have been put to death. He had let Peter _manipulate_ and toy with him, and all the while the boy sat back, plied him with kindness, wrote to his enemies, and plotted his death.

Well, fair was only fair.

He was going to rip that kid’s heart out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Beck thinks about sex a lot (of course.) Attempted sexual assault/use of alcohol and physical coercion to get someone drunk and take advantage of them. Vomiting.
> 
> Chapter Summary: Beck is very upset in the morning to learn that Tony is not dead AND the Arachnean rebels have not been put to death. Meanwhile, since their relationship has improved so much and Tony has proven to be a good person, Peter burns his poison recipe. Believing that Peter exchanged sexual favours with Tony, Beck attempts to get Peter drunk to sleep with him to prove that they belong together. When Peter rejects him, Beck gets aggressive and more violent. Remembering Michelle's self-defence lessons, Peter manages to get Beck off of him and returns to his rooms and to bed. Slighted by Peter and now angrier than ever, Beck takes his forgery of Peter's notes to Tony and convinces him that Peter was planning to poison him (which is awkward, because as early as last night, Peter WAS planning to poison him... but so much has happened since then!) 😄
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone ☺️ I'm sorry for missing the posting last week but, as you can see, a lot happened in this chapter. I hope the wait was worth it — I love you all so much ❤️❤️ As always, thanks to my beta reader Silver Lurker  
> Have a good one,  
> -Grace
> 
> PS. Okay, I guess i shouldn't have said "I think everything is going to be good forever from here on out" at the end of last chapter.. my bad 😊😚❤️


	23. Severed Heartstrings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony confronts Peter about the poison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Vomiting, very brief physical violence, tiny bit of blood, semi-explicit descriptions of surgery/illness/past character death, so much shouting

“Prince Peter?”

Peter groaned and rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut. The faint voice seemed to echo — first in his left ear and then his right. He lifted a hand and wiped it down his face, wondering why his lips were so dry, why every heartbeat seemed to be pounding against the side of his head, and why his throat —

God, his throat.

“Prince Peter?” Whoever it was knocked when they called again, the sound made the pain in Peter’s head flare. He meant to sit up, meant to open his eyes; at the very least he pried open his mouth and tried to call an answer but his voice just came out in a grating cough that he choked on.

The bedroom door opened and Peter forced himself to sit up. Every muscle felt heavy, his head was spinning even though the room wasn’t and his stomach felt scrambled.

“Prince Peter?” Peter finally made himself look to the doorway and the anxious young soldier standing there.

“Hello?” Peter said. He furrowed his eyebrows, but that made a new pain flash across his forehead until he forced himself to relax, blinking furiously as if that could clear the ringing in his ears.

The soldier shifted on his feet and turned around to say something. Peter listened to the soft murmur of voices and swung his legs over the bed, freezing when he noticed he was dressed in only his smallclothes. His eyes slid to a meagre meal and cup of water on the bedside table.

He reached for the water almost desperately, draining the cup in two gulps. It settled uneasily in his stomach, rolling over and making him choke for a moment with a hand over his mouth, determined not to throw it up. He glanced around the room; it was morning but Tony’s side of the bed was untouched and the rays of sunlight hung suspended like threads of silver silk in the air, not far past dawn.

“Your Grace, if you would be so kind as to get dressed, you’re summoned to come with us immediately.” Peter’s head swivelled back to the door and the guard who’d woken him. He couldn’t see anyone else but assumed there was at least one other soldier in the solar.

Peter croaked out, “Is everything okay?” Was someone hurt? Was Tony alright? Was…

What had happened last night that made him feel so sick?

Hadn’t he… been with Beck?

The soldier turned away again for another quick exchange, when he finally addressed Peter he looked apologetic. All he said was, “King’s orders, Your Grace.” And then he shut the door so Peter could get dressed.

Peter stood on shaking legs and took a cautious step forward, gasping when the floor seemed to lurch and he tumbled to his knees.

Peter landed with his hands splayed on the floor and his stomach churning. For a somewhat asinine moment he thought maybe he _couldn’t_ stand up, that he was too weak and too dizzy and maybe he was even dying.

He had been hungover before, but never like this. The closest thing Peter could remember would have been nearly four months ago, in the middle of the war.

May had collapsed when they received word that Ben was dead. She fainted right there in the garden where the messenger found them; Peter and half a dozen soldiers and servants leapt to catch her. Her heart had always been weak but that day, at the news of her husband’s death, it gave out entirely. Peter had stayed at her bedside through the afternoon, but she didn’t respond to any treatments; by the time the sun had set she was gone — another life Peter had been unable to save.

Peter had drunk himself sick that night; alone and unwilling to face what the coming weeks would bring. He woke up in the morning on his bedroom floor. MJ was standing over him, empty bottles kicked aside at her feet. She crossed her arms and demanded to know what he was doing, reminded him that he had not been raised to give in under hardship and pain, told him sharply that he now had a country to run and an army to lead…

She had promised to remain at his side through whatever else came their way.

But MJ was not here now. Peter dug his nails into his thighs and took in a shaky breath, reminding himself of the responsibilities he still had. This was just a hangover, an illness that would be gone within a day or two. And anyway, he wasn’t entirely alone here anymore.

Peter swallowed past his burning throat and put his feet underneath him again. He was shaking as he changed and paused as he laced his pants up, staring at the mottled bruises on either wrist. He lifted a hand to touch his mouth, even his _lips_ felt sore.

Despite the throb of his heart beating in his head, Peter could make out the murmur of voices outside, the soldiers torn between patience and restlessness. He quickly finished lacing his pants and grabbed his handkerchief, a few coins, and the key to the still room from the top of his dresser. He tucked everything into his pocket and, grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth, reached for his pouch of fennel seeds as well. He chewed on a small handful of them as he went to the door; the sudden swing when he pulled it open made his head whirl.

“I’m ready,” Peter said, burying his surprise when he found there were three armed soldiers waiting in the solar. He kept his face neutral and wondered if it was worth asking where they were going or what was going on. _King’s orders, Your Grace_ had been intentionally vague — maybe they didn’t know themselves.

Two soldiers flanked Peter as the third led him from the royal quarters. Each step brought on a sharp new burst of pain in his head and he kept pursing his lips, pressing them together and feeling the dull ache there. His first thought was that they were going to take him to Tony’s office but instead they went to a stairwell and began to descend.

Peter managed to take two steps before the stairs swam below him and his stomach lurched. He stopped walking, belched, issued a hurried apology to the perplexed looks thrown his way, and then doubled over to throw up. The soldiers scattered, gasped, and murmured as Peter braced himself with one hand on the wall, expelling a messy, dark red liquid onto the steps.

There was a shuffle of movement and a hand on his arm, as if to pull him up, but Peter shook his head and choked again. This time nothing came up; his body heaved painfully, clenching around nothing. After a moment, he managed to spit up a glob of yellow bile that burned his tongue.

A cold sweat broke out on Peter’s forehead and across his upper back. He took in a few deep breaths, feeling certain that he could not make himself stand even if he tried. Why was he _so_ sick? What had he done? Hadn’t he… he’d….

Peter climbed to his feet, bracing himself against the wall and the soldier still holding his left arm. “I’m so sorry,” Peter mumbled, “I’m so sorry, I — I should —”

“It’s alright, Your Grace. We’ll get someone to clean it up,” The soldier holding him helped Peter gingerly over the mess and down the rest of the steps where he slumped again in the hallway, leaning his head against the stone wall and shivering.

After taking another moment to compose himself, Peter glanced back toward the steps, “I should really be the one to —”

“Your Grace, it’s no trouble,” the soldier interrupted quickly, all three of them were exchanging looks with each other.

“Maybe we should —”

“The King’s orders were clear, and I don’t want to go back and argue with him.”

“I’m fine,” Peter insisted before the three of them could argue for too long, “Please, I’m fine. Just take me where we’re going, I feel better now.”

That was almost true. He felt something of a second wind as they helped him to stand up straight and continued at a slower pace down the hall.

It only took a few more minutes for them to reach their destination; they stood in front Peter’s old room and his eyes slid uncertainly between the door and his escort.

“King Anthony has asked for you to wait inside, Your Grace.”

With a nod, Peter opened the door and stepped in; the furniture was the same but the room was more bare than he remembered. Things looked untouched and he wondered if the space had even been used since the day of his wedding.

“We’ll get you some water, Your Grace.” Peter turned to look at the soldiers, peering anxiously between one another — they must have as many questions as he did.

“I’m just supposed to wait here?” Peter asked.

“That’s what we were told. Someone will be out here, if you need anything.”

Then the door shut behind him, and Peter was alone.

 _Someone will be out here_. But were they there to stop others from entering or to stop him from leaving? The secrecy and early morning made it feel like the latter. Peter went to sit down on the edge of the bed, looking slowly around the room. There was something almost… _unsteady_ about being back in this space. He felt like he was trespassing on his own memories.

Peter curled his hand in the blanket; another wave of nausea came on but he didn’t throw up. He just folded himself over and hung his head between his knees, staring at the bruises on his wrists and waiting for the sickness to pass.

He had been drinking with Beck last night, so he was hungover now. He understood that much, but he couldn’t piece together the bruises and soreness and why he would have drunk so much to begin with. Then again, he hadn’t eaten dinner and hadn’t slept well the night before… and Beck had… said something or…

Beck had grabbed him; yes, that made sense. Peter lifted a trembling hand to trace his lips, Beck had kissed him too, now that he thought about it. And said… and said…

_Despite the pain and ugliness involved, I’m really glad we met. I’m really happy I’ve gotten to know you… I won’t tell anyone, this’ll be just for us…_

Peter’s thoughts grew muddled the harder he tried to remember and he squinted at the floor. Clearly Beck had feelings for him, and had tried to act on those feelings last night only for Peter to reject him. Then Peter wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but there must have been a miscommunication, some fondling or groping or maybe an argument. Peter swallowed hard; he should probably find Beck and apologise, explain that he was sorry if he’d led him on inappropriately but that they could truly _only_ be friends.

Peter jumped up when there was a knock on the door and hurried to open it, stamping out his disappointment when it was just the soldiers with a jug of water and an empty cup.

“Thank you,” Peter took them both but then hovered in the doorway. He asked, “Do you happen to know how long the King will be?”

The soldiers looked at one another. The one who’d brought the water shook his head, “We were just told to bring you here to await the King’s audience, Your Grace. I’m sorry we don’t know more.”

“That’s okay,” Peter reassured them, “Umm… What about Bradley Davis? Can you bring him here?” Brad could at least check in with Jarvis and maybe bring Peter something to work on.

“Davis was sent home this morning, Your Grace.” This was followed by a thin smile, “The King may be a while; perhaps you should get some sleep? Given your… ailment.”

“Oh. Okay, thank you…” Peter didn’t really want to tell them goodbye and close the door again, it felt like he was locking himself in. But without much else to say and with the bed waiting very invitingly behind him, he found himself repeating his thank you and turning away.

Peter poured himself a cup of water, took a couple of sips, and then put the jug and cup down on the bedside table. He collapsed on the bed, lying on his back and chewing his bottom lip, thinking about Tony. If the King hadn’t slept in their bed last night then that was two consecutive nights that he hadn’t slept well. Peter hoped he was okay.

He thought about the last time he had been in this room, about the snug fit of his wedding suit and Christine Everhart’s harsh voice. Before then he’d had that horrible sickness when he found out Ben asked Tony to marry him — that had been an excruciating revelation, but it made sense now. Tony was not the abusive, mad tyrant they had feared; Peter was alive and well and could advocate for his people.

Peter’s thoughts wandered further back, he fiddled with the key and coins clinking in his pocket. The water had helped a bit, but with a lingering, sour taste in his mouth he chewed on more of the fennel. This was the same room where Tony had brought him that fish dinner, the two of them sitting in a cold silence. They had both been too conscious of their own words and actions over that meal. Brad had beaten Peter that day… Peter had _met_ Beck that day… How long ago was that?

Peter yawned as he tried to work it out… must’ve been… Two months? No, two and a half.

Which made it just under three months since Peter and Tony had met…

Peter’s eyes felt heavy. His head didn’t feel _better_ per se but lying down like this was certainly the easiest position on his battered body. He closed his eyes and swallowed past the pain in his raw throat.

The last thought Peter had was that he wanted to reach for the water on the bedside table again. But before he could muster the strength and awareness to do it, he drifted off.

* * *

When Peter woke, the sun had shifted and the room was washed in bright daylight. One hand fluttered off the bed, reaching for the edges of his dream. Ned had been there; _Ben_ had been there. Waking up in his old room — a room that looked almost-but-not-quite the same — Peter almost felt like…

Things were almost normal. Almost the way they were supposed to be.

It was like he could stand up and walk out the door and find May in her still room and Ben in his office and MJ training with Susan. After morning lessons, Peter would eat a light meal with his aunt and uncle and talk about trade with their neighbours; in the afternoon, he and MJ would go find Ned, maybe take a ride outside the city or wander through the market.

 _The way things were supposed to be_. What a silly, childish, delusional thought. It wasn’t just _unlikely_ that Peter would ever get that back — it was impossible.

Peter sat up slowly, relieved to find his head did not hurt so much and his stomach didn’t protest the movement. He climbed off the bed and looked nervously at the door.

He must have been asleep at least several hours… and Tony still wasn’t here?

Determined to get at least some _shred_ of information from the guards, Peter walked toward the door, his balance a bit steadier than it had been in the morning. He was about to pull the door open when he heard Tony’s voice, it sounded flat and dark; it was that same quiet growl from the day they’d met.

“I want a man at the end of every adjoining hallway. No one passes you and _no one_ stands at this door.”

Peter backed up a few steps, his body twisting into knots again. Tony was preparing for a very private conversation between them. Peter didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing — if anything. Should he sit at the desk or on the bed? Should he try to make himself look busy? Should he —

The door opened.

The air in the room seemed to become much colder, an icy tension filling the space as gooseflesh prickled up and down Peter’s arms. He fiddled with the sleeves at his wrists but didn’t take his eyes off of Tony as the King stepped inside and shut the door.

They stared at one another, a few feet of space between them, Tony’s pupils were blown wide, his limbs coiled like he was going to pounce. But beneath all that anger he was —

He was sad.

His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair was mussed and sticking out from running his hands through it over and over again. Peter had never seen him like this, never seen such a transparent display of rage and grief from him before. He was usually so controlled and careful, always calculated and reserved.

“Tony,” Peter swallowed hard, his nausea was back. “What is it? What’s going on?”

Tony stepped closer to him and reached into his vest to withdraw a stack of papers. He carefully unfolded them. His hands were shaking as he thrust them into Peter’s hands, Peter scrambled to orient the crumpled pages and look down at them.

“Peter, were you going to kill me?”

For just a second, Peter thought he was going to pass out.

These were his notes, his _poison_ notes. He had watched these burn just a day ago… hadn’t he? What were they — why were they – where did —

Peter’s heart slowed down as he flipped over one page and then another. He risked a glance up at Tony, his throat suddenly drier than it had been when he woke up.

No, these definitely weren’t his. They were some type of imitation, a copy. The handwriting was eerily similar to his own, the recipe was exact, the equations correct. There were even scribbles and dots where he had doodled and crossed things out. But the notes themselves weren’t always accurate.

Hemlock, for example, noted _do not give to women_ and that wasn’t right. It shouldn’t be given to pregnant or nursing women, which wasn’t a mistake Peter would have made.

Peter swallowed the fear and anxiety which welled up in his chest. Tony already had a problem with correspondence and suddenly all Peter could think about was that chilly afternoon with Michelle’s memorial and the chrysanthemum tea: _This sounds like someone using the fog of war to their own advantage, to undermine Arachne or Ferrum… or both_.

Someone using the fog and _the aftermath_ of war, apparently.

Peter looked up again, shuffling the notes back together in his hands, “Tony, I think there’s something —”

“I only want to hear _one word_ from you right now, Peter. Were you planning to kill me or not?”

“Yes, but —”

Maybe it was because he was sick or just because he wasn’t expecting it, but when Tony slapped him Peter staggered a couple steps to the left.

He gasped and raised a hand to his right cheek, tears burning on the edge of his eyes. The blow sent a new wave of piercing pain through his head and he was afraid he’d get sick again but swallowed down the bile.

“You were going to _poison_ me!” Tony hissed and grabbed Peter’s hair, yanking his head up before shoving him backward. Peter stumbled across the floor, flinching at the venom in Tony’s voice, “Like the _coward_ that you are!”

Peter stared at him, his head pounding and his eyes filled with tears. The fingers on his cheek came away wet with blood. He looked at Tony’s hand, at the metal of the ring that had cut Peter’s cheek.

His wedding ring.

On the day they met, Peter had stood in this castle as Arachne fell. Tony had interrupted him and struck him and called him a coward. Peter had been tired and scared to stand in the King’s presence, and so overwhelmingly alone that he could not name a single person he might want to talk to.

Now here they were, three months later: Tony had interrupted him and struck him and called him a coward; Peter was tired and scared and alone.

Back where they started.

Would they always be here?

Tony’s voice was trembling, “Turn over the key to that still room right now, and then you’d better give me a damn good reason not to have you executed.”

Peter kept his eyes on the floor and sniffed. He wiped the back of his hand on his cheek, not caring that it just smeared the blood on his face.

“A good reason,” he repeated softly, almost mumbling it to himself, “A good _reason_?”

Tony was still glaring at him. Peter wondered if he was actually swaying on his feet or if it just felt like he was. He shook his head in frustration, it felt like there was a fly next to his ear — or maybe right in the centre of his brain, flinging itself around and around, completely out of control

“I…” Peter trailed off, then lifted his gaze to meet Tony’s. The King looked the slightest bit smug, like he was pleased with himself for cowing Peter, for making him bleed and bringing him to tears — like he’d won. Like nothing had ever changed.

Peter’s voice rasped a bit when he choked out, “I can give you… _thirty_ good reasons.” Tony’s smile dropped the slightest bit; that was all Peter needed to feel a bit more strength in his chest and his voice lifted, “I finished this recipe a month ago. I’ve had the ingredients to make it ever since you gave me the still room key.” Tony’s eyes widened at this and Peter had to fight not to curl his lip in disdain,

“You never thought much of me, _did_ you? That was your biggest mistake — May had _everything_ there that I needed. I’ve been serving you tea for over _six weeks._ You want a good reason not to have me killed? I could have killed you thirty times over _at least_! But I _didn’t_ because I thought you were _trying_ , I thought there was some _good_ in you — I thought — I _thought_ —”

Peter bit his own lip hard enough that he felt the dry skin crack under his teeth, “But this isn’t even about _opportunity_ to kill you! You want to know my _motive_ , Tony? Do you _still_ not understand how you ruined my life? You took _everything_ that I had left!” With each word, Peter got louder, until he was nearly shouting, gasping for air at the sheer, overwhelming _relief_ of finally getting this out.

“My parents died when I was a child!” Peter yelled, “I watched my mother waste away in agony for a year! My father was never the same and a winter fever took him…” Peter trailed off, “But, even though I mourned them, I was _happy_. My best friend Ned — Betty’s Ned? I don’t even remember when we met, I just know that I saw him every single day of my life until the war started. He was my best friend. My. _Best. Friend.”_

Tony shifted at this, opened his mouth like he was going to speak. Maybe he was thinking about Rhodey, but Peter continued before he could say anything,

“Ned was wounded in one of the first battles with your army. Stabbed in the gut. I operated on him twice… He died on the table, begging to see Betty, with my hands _inside of him_! You’ve been to war, been in a medical tent, I’m sure you know what that’s like! Blood everywhere, screaming and crying and flesh rotting off bone and the — the _smell_!”

Tony grimaced and Peter reached up to rub the tears from his eyes, “MJ was going to be the captain of my armsmen! She died in my arms to warn me that you were coming, she _pleaded_ with me to accept your proposal! And the worst part is you just don’t realise the pain you’ve caused and that you will _continue_ to cause — it’s because of _you,_ Tony, that Ned’s child will never know their father! Because of _you,_ Betty will never marry the man she loved! Because of _you,_ Brad will never raise a family with MJ!”

Tony finally mustered his voice, “Casualties are a part of —”

“No, you don’t get to speak right now!” Peter shouted, “I’m not done, you’re going to stand there and listen until I’m done!” Tony’s pupils dilated — but not in anger. He looked stunned, maybe even afraid.

Peter spat, “You’re not liberating anyone! You’re not saving people, not freeing them from tyranny! So you’re going to see to it everybody gets fresh water now? Great! Wonderful! And all Arachne had to give for it was life and limb and kin. _You_ know how it feels to have your family ripped away from you. Well, how many families have you destroyed in the past ten years?” Peter threw his arm out at this, gesturing in the general direction of the city. Tony turned slightly to look, like maybe the reality of this would manifest right in front of them.

“You ruin lives _everywhere_ you go!” Peter continued, “You never stop to think about the pain you’re causing, so don’t tell me this is my fault! Don’t tell me I’m in the wrong for wanting you dead after _everything_ you did to me, to my family, my friends, and my country — and all those others! Dammit, killing you would have been a _service_ , like putting down a rabid dog!”

Peter looked down at the papers crumpled in his fingers, damp from the tears that had dripped down his face, “And this,” his voice softened a bit, “This… _Of course_ I had a poison. You know what another word for poison is? _Medicine_. I was the Crown Prince of Arachne, I had a duty to protect my people — I had to defend them from the monster burning their homes and killing their loved ones. You already know I was willing to sacrifice my own life for that, so why the _hell_ would I have stopped at sacrificing _yours_?”

The King flinched when Peter’s eyes met his, but the Prince’s voice remained steady, “And you know what I personally can’t forgive you for?” His voice broke, shattering all around them in this stone bedroom that felt so wrong, “I can’t forgive you for Ben. Because that’s the thing that I just don’t understand! _He_ was the one who steadied me at my mother’s deathbed. He held my hand at my father’s funeral. He lifted me up, named me his heir, gave me _every part_ of who he was, sacrificed _everything_ so that I would live!”

Peter had to take a deep breath before he could continue, scrounging up what strength he still had in his chest, “He treated me like his son. Ben and May loved me the same way that you loved Morgan.” The mention of his daughter’s name made Tony wince, but he didn’t interrupt as Peter spat, “You killed your father because he let her die. Well, you’re the reason my aunt and uncle are gone, so didn’t I have every right to kill you? I had a whole month to use that poison…” He choked back his sobs, tears blurring his vision as he demanded, “Why _aren’t_ you dead, Tony?”

Peter swallowed twice, his voice too thick to continue. Tony kept watching him, like he was waiting for permission to speak. Or maybe he just didn’t know what to say — he looked like he was the one who’d been struck. Peter brushed his hair back from his forehead and turned away, his bottom lip trembling as more thick tears streaked over his cheeks.

They were both silent for too long; both standing too far from one another; both blinking back tears of anger and grief and exhaustion and pain.

Here. Always here. They would _always_ be here.

The pain in Peter’s chest was so intense that he felt like falling to his knees. But he held his ground. He fished a hand into his pocket.

“You want this damn key? Take it.” Peter growled, flicking his hand to throw the still room key in Tony’s direction, not even bothering to look at the King.

It might’ve hit Tony or it might’ve fallen straight to the floor, Peter didn’t find that he cared that much. The action roused a response though.

“No,” Tony bent down to pick the key up and stepped toward Peter holding it out, “No, I’m — Peter, I’m so —”

“Don’t you _dare_ say you’re sorry.” Peter hissed. He couldn’t even look at Tony, he just glared at the wall with his shoulders hunched. He was certain that he had never been this angry before — it was frustrating, with nowhere for that anger to go, except to keep roiling inside of him, tearing him apart from the inside out.

Tony didn’t answer, probably couldn’t decide what to say if not _I’m sorry_.

Peter was tired of swallowing cheap apologies and his own pride; neither could erase the consequences of what Tony had done.

“Keep the key,” Tony rasped eventually, his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, “You can — you don’t have to stay here, you can — you can do whatever you want, go wherever you want. I’m just so...” His throat closed up on what he’d been forbidden from saying. When he did speak, his voice was ragged, “Go back to our quarters I’ll —I’ll sleep somewhere else.”

Peter finally made a sound: it was a scoff that made Tony’s neck and face burn. Peter didn’t turn but his eyes slid to look at Tony, it was probably the closest the Prince could come to a look of disgust.

“I don’t want those rooms, I don’t want your ‘freedom’ and I don’t want that _fucking_ key.” Peter snapped, “I’m staying here. _You_ go sleep in the king’s suite;you killed him for it, you earned it.”

Tony shook his head desperately, “No, I — Peter, I —”

“I don’t want you here.” Peter rounded on him and Tony took a few steps back toward the door, “I _hate_ you! I don’t know why I ever thought I could come to care for you! Brad and Barney were right, I sold myself out to a murderer! And _then_ , I let him live. A coward and a whore, that’s all I am.”

“No, Peter, you _didn’t_ — you can’t think —”

“I don’t want your absolution, Tony!”

Tony was shaking his head, blinking over and over again to curb the tears building in his eyes, “Peter, you have to let me — let me fix —”

“It _can’t_ be fixed!” Peter shouted, “Just get out!”

Tony nodded over and over as he made his way to the door. As soon as it shut behind him, Peter sat down hard on the bed, letting the poison notes fall to the floor around him. He bowed his head and wrapped his arms around himself, desperately trying to swallow his sobs.

His headache had come back even fiercer than before, but that was nothing compared to the pain gnawing away at his heart. Despite everything he’d said, it felt like he was crying over Tony.

And he did not want to mourn a villain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update, Jan 5: Sorry for being MIA folks. Some stuff came up and believe me I would have much rather been writing/posting/hanging with you all 😔. Obviously, Ch 24 didn't get posted on New Year's Eve but it WILL be up this Thursday, Jan 7. I love you all so much and thanks so much for your patience 💜
> 
> Original Author's Note:  
> Listen folks, the response to 22 just blew me away 🥺🥺 idk what I did to deserve all of that love, those comments, messages, DMs, etc. I literally spent part of last Friday just like crying (in a good way!)  
> ❤️❤️❤️ All of you and this project really mean the world to me.  
> So, as we can tell, things didn't exactly get better... but I bet that was really cathartic for Peter to get through ☺️ And I do think Tony needed to hear it...  
> Wishing all who are celebrating a Merry Christmas and happy holidays! ❄️❄️❄️ I guess I'll see you again on New Year's Eve (thank god, right? 2021 can only improve on where we're at, I hope?) 😄😄  
> Thanks as always to my beta reader Silver Lurker (she's been so excited for this chapter and for Tony to get knocked down a peg 😅)  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	24. Pure Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The castle is abuzz wondering what happened between the King and the Prince Consort. Meanwhile, Tony suffers through a difficult anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Nothing except the usual references to war, loss, etc.

“...win? _Edwin?_ Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

Jarvis felt like he had to yank his mind back to the present. He realised he must be acting unusual, eyes fixed unblinking on the fire and his chin resting despondently in his hand. His back was slouched and bent forward a bit, _and_ he hadn’t touched his tea.

“I’m quite alright, darling.” Jarvis flashed a thin smile at Ana and fixed his posture. She raised one eyebrow at him, her spoon clinked against her teacup as she stirred in a bit of honey. She didn’t say anything but it felt like an accusation rang in the air so Jarvis added, “I’m just tired.”

“Did something else happen between them?” She tilted her head a bit to the right, away from their cozy little sitting area and toward the door to their suite; out to the bustle of the castle before bedtime.

 _Them._ King Anthony and Prince Peter.

The suggestion of ‘something else happening’ almost made Jarvis snort. For something else to have happened, the King and the Prince Consort would have had to speak to one another, or at the very least exchange a glance. And any interaction at all was feeling less likely by the day.

Ten excruciating days had passed since — well, since whatever happened _happened_. Between Jarvis’ connections to the throne and Ana’s hand at castle gossip, they had pieced together a confusing picture that didn’t quite add up.

It seemed like the Prince had gotten drunk and been hungover; displeased with this immature behaviour, the King had him locked up in his old room and went to confront him later in the day; and then… then… then _what_? King Anthony had become pensive and quiet; Peter, sporting a shallow cut on his cheek, shut himself in his room and hardly shared a word with anyone; _neither_ of them were sleeping in the royal quarters; _both_ of them were continuing to work, even without communicating directly with one another.

Some people in the castle thought Prince Peter had an affair — but Jarvis had ruled that out already, and it didn’t explain why the King seemed to be the one feeling guilty. Peter just seemed…

Angry? Empty? Somewhere in between, if such a thing existed.

Ana cleared her throat and Jarvis realised he’d slouched forward again. He straightened his back and pulled his elbow off the armrest of his chair, grimacing at the pointed look his wife gave him.

“It will help if you talk about it, Mister Jarvis.” Her eyes were wide and her lips formed into a little pout, almost like she was teasing him — _daring_ him to share the details of his day.

Jarvis pursed his lips.

There were at least _some_ things he could tell her.

“Well,” Jarvis bent to pick up his teacup but he didn’t drink from it. He met Ana’s gaze, grounding himself in the familiarity of smiling red lips and light blue eyes. “You know His Grace instructed Davis and myself to take care of the Prince, make sure he’s eating enough, sleeping well…” Jarvis waved vaguely with one hand as he trailed off, remembering how distracted and — Desperate? Insistent? Agitated? — The King had been when he’d pulled Jarvis and Bradley Davis aside and asked them to ‘keep an eye on Peter.’

_He doesn’t sleep when he’s stressed — and he doesn’t eat when he’s upset — and he might get sick again, so watch for signs of that — but don’t mention me unless he asks — but just make sure he…_

The King had trailed off, perhaps as frustrated with himself as Jarvis was with the rambling instruction and the ambiguity of what had happened that day.

“He seems to be doing well enough,” Jarvis went on, thinking of the few interactions he’d had with Peter. Something fluttered in his stomach at the thought of this afternoon — fear, perhaps. Guilt, certainly. “But today the King asked me specifically to inquire of the Prince whether there’s anything we should know to care for his lemon plants — he’s been growing lemon seedlings in their quarters, I suppose.”

“Well, that sounds quite nice, doesn’t it?”

Jarvis nodded at this, but then realised he wasn’t sure if she meant it was nice for the Prince to cultivate lemons or nice for the King to bother to look after them. Probably a bit of both.

Jarvis cleared his throat, “Anyway, I took a few papers to Prince Peter this morning and asked about the lemons while I was there. And then I — I hugged him.”

Jarvis closed his eyes as soon as the confession left him and thumped his head back against the head of his armchair, “Oh, Ana, I didn’t even ask — he had no warning — and don’t misunderstand, I stopped myself and apologised immediately, I just… I’m still quite appalled with myself, to tell the truth.”

Ana was stirring her tea again even though she hadn’t added anything to it. After a moment she ventured, “There’s probably nothing to be worried about, dear. I don’t think Arachne concerns itself as much with saving face or keeping a stiff upper lip…I suppose my only question is: _why_ did you give him a hug?”

Jarvis knit his eyebrows together and his gaze settled on the floor. Even seated in separate chairs like this, he could tap her leg with his foot if he were to just reach a little. He thought about Prince Peter’s weary, strained smile that morning as he accepted the files. The flicker and polite acquiesce when Jarvis added, “And one other matter, Your Grace.”

“ _King Anthony wanted me to ask about the lemon seedlings and if there’s anything in particular we must do to take care of them while you’re… that is, until you’re…”_

He’d trailed off, disappointed in himself for his own bumbling behaviour. The least he could have done was gotten his words right _before_ wasting the Prince’s time.

And then, right in front of him, Prince Peter’s face twisted, almost like it was going to rip into pieces. Tears welled in his eyes and he swallowed hard, and to Jarvis he looked no longer like an astute and intelligent member of Ferrum’s royal family; for a moment, he was merely a boy, someone lost and hurting.

 _Why did you give him a hug_?

“I suppose,” Jarvis answered his wife’s question at length, “I thought he could use one.” Then he shook his head, “But that doesn’t excuse my behaviour. He was polite about it, of course, but I’m sure he was mortified and, really Ana he’s a _prince,_ it was terribly undignified… downright intrusive... _and_ I didn’t get an answer about the lemons.”

Ana didn’t answer for a while. When she did speak, she fought not to giggle, “Mister Jarvis, you may be overthinking this. We know Prince Peter has been upset, you thought he could use a hug and so you gave him one. He hardly seems the type to take offence at something like that.”

“I just hope he’s alright…” Jarvis shook his head again.

Ana said, “Well, you’ve never been much of a hugger.” And he managed a short bark of laughter.

He wanted to tell her about the rest of his day too, about King Anthony asking him to stay late in the evening and the uneasy look on the man’s face. It was an expression Jarvis had only seen when they were at war, though this battle seemed to be fought within the King’s own mind.

“ _Jarvis, if I wanted to… leave Arachne, wanted to let Peter out of the contract — out of the marriage, what would that look like?”_

_“…You mean a divorce, milord?”_

_“If divorce is the best way to go about it.”_

_“Well, there must be grounds for a divorce... Or perhaps an annulment.”_

_“Like what?”_

_“Was Prince Peter already married?”_

_The King scowled_ , _“You_ know _he wasn’t.”_

_“Would you accuse him of adultery?”_

_“No!”_

_“Well, he hasn’t deserted you. He hasn’t denied you food, clothing, or shelter — not that there was much choice in these matters. Would you accuse him of abuse, milord? Has he hurt you or injured you?”_

_The King’s frown deepened and he didn’t answer that one for a while. When he did, his voice was bitter and heavy, “Peter has better grounds than I do on that account.”_

_Jarvis couldn’t argue with that._

They had talked some more, started to poke at a possible solution, Jarvis had promised to review Arachne’s law books and follow up in a few days.

All in all, the conversation left Jarvis weary and with an unpleasant feeling in his chest. But, if nothing else, this course might be better for Prince Peter.

Though, even that Jarvis wasn’t so sure of.

“Edwin? I’m losing you again.”

Jarvis chuckled and crossed his legs the other way, straightening his back once more. “I’m so sorry, darling. It seems I really am fatigued today.”

“I don’t think we need to worry too much about all of this,” Ana wore a mischievous smile as she sipped her tea, staring up over her eyelashes.

Jarvis thought about the last few months, about Peter’s confidence in statecraft and his ability to stand up to the King. About the astonishing concessions King Anthony had made with the armsmen. As bereaved as Peter was and as difficult as these months had been for Arachne, Jarvis didn’t like the thought of returning to empty bloodshed. The King and the Prince had shown recently that they could be good for one another and good for their people.

The cost hadn’t been worth it, _couldn’t_ be worth it, but perhaps they could…

Could move on? No, that wasn’t it. They were both hurt, scarred people with a great responsibility on their shoulders; and it was all made worse by how terribly one of them had hurt the other. Jarvis didn’t know if there could ever be forgiveness, not permanently or completely. But maybe they could still reconcile, or offer support or learn to lead amicably together. And, given more time... maybe they could become enough for each other.

Not for the first time, Jarvis was very grateful that he loved Ana and that she loved him and that their marriage was between only the two of them.

Ana added after another moment of silence,“I think things will work out between them. I have to hope they can, in spite of everything.” She looked solemn for a moment before smiling again at her husband.

“I suppose that’s what the stars say?” Jarvis grinned.

Ana rolled her eyes, “You shouldn’t mock the stars. But we’d better hope I’m right. I bet a week’s worth of your salary on this.”

“You _what_?” That made Jarvis sit bolt upright and Ana dissolved into giggles, swirling to her feet and bending down to peck him on the lips while still laughing,

“Lighten up, dear. Maybe it’s not in the stars this time; maybe it’s in Arachne’s rains.”

She pulled his teacup from his own hand and set it down on the table before tugging him to his feet. He set his hands on her hips as she wrapped her arms around his neck. They moved slowly, basking in the warmth of the fire as they danced in languid, easy circles. Ana started to hum softly, an old tune that he recognised from her home country.

Jarvis couldn’t help but think that, if the King went through with his plan, then they might not have many Arachnean rains left to see. His gaze flickered to the window, to the cold, dry night outside.

He had half a mind to tell Ana, to confess what King Anthony was thinking about, to suggest she enjoy the rains as much as possible and should anticipate losing — or settling — lingering bets.

But then he remembered the King’s words — _not a word of our conversation leaves this office. Tell no one, not even your wife._

If it was someone or something else, he would probably tell Ana anyway.

But then he remembered the wounded, blood-thirsty young man who had stormed Howard Stark’s castle ten years ago. He remembered the past ten years of invasions, reprisals, warfare, and violence; he remembered King Benjamin kneeling at King Anthony’s feet.

“What are you thinking about?” Ana pressed her head into his chest and he tugged her closer, settling his chin on top of her head and closing his eyes as they spun again.

No, he wouldn’t tell Ana about his conversation with the King. And, just for right now, he would put Prince Peter and Arachne and Ferrum and the rest of the world out of his mind.

“Just how grateful I am to have you.”

* * *

_To His Grace Peter Benjamin Parker, Prince Consort of the Kingdom of Ferrum,_

_Setting certain circumstances aside, it was a pleasure to hear from you, Peter. We were devastated to hear about your uncle, and it pained me that we couldn’t reach you or offer aid before Ferrum’s arrival. As your letter noted, flooding in the spring left our resources stretched too thin and the mountain pass too treacherous to travel for months. I cannot tell you how relieved we were to hear that Arachne’s royal line survives in you, despite the heartache and other unpleasant consequences._

_Rest assured, Prince Peter, refugees from Arachne will remain well cared for. A surviving captain from Arachne’s army, Eugene Thompson, has represented and advocated for your people bravely; he tirelessly assists my own men in settling disputes, helping families find housing, and resource allocation. Since affairs have been settled in Arachne, he has expressed interest in returning home; I promised to at least broach the matter of a safe return with you and your husband._

_In answer to your initial request: Yes, James and I would be delighted to discuss the engineering and medical practice behind his prosthetic. However, I would also like to use this opportunity to suggest a longer conversation about our embargo against your territories. If your husband is able to exhibit some semblance of self-control, if he can curb his bloodlust and stop his wanton invasions, war crimes, and massacres, then I am willing to open up a dialogue between our nations again._

_I also request that this discussion occurs only through you, Peter. I have nothing to say to Anthony Stark and I doubt he has anything to say to me._

_When you can, please let us know of any preliminary ideas you have regarding the prosthetics. James and I will work in the meantime on a list of resources and materials; in the future, we may be open to arranging a summit or audience as well._

_Best of luck, Peter. Keep your heart and mind moving forward; it’s tempting to want to live in the past — the past is familiar and it is comfortable. But I caution you not to sacrifice your future for what could have been._

_Yours Faithfully,_

_Steven Grant Rogers_

Tony had read Rogers’ letter to Peter seven times. Once because he was curious what the respected King of Sciath Réalta had to say; two more times because he couldn’t quite believe that _not only_ was Rogers open to the prosthetic project but he was willing to lift trade sanctions; then Tony skimmed the letter four more times, seething at phrases like _unpleasant consequences_ and _if your husband is able to exhibit some semblance of self-control._

The worst was easily _it pained me that we couldn’t reach you or offer aid before Ferrum’s arrival,_ as if Tony was something that Peter needed to be _rescued_ from. But then again, as soon as that frustrated thought crossed his mind, Tony could hear Peter’s fractured voice: _you took_ everything _that I had left… you ruin lives_ everywhere _you go!_

Tony’s lip curled and he pushed the letter away from him; it teetered on the edge of the desk. It had been ten days since he’d even laid eyes on Peter, and he _still_ couldn’t get the Prince’s voice out of his head. His accusations followed Tony everywhere, even into uneasy and fitful dreams.

And now this stupid letter… _of course_ Rogers was willing to help Peter. Of course he was willing to resume trade with Arachne and was happy to hear from him. Worst of all, there was no mention of malicious retaliation or underhanded plots or even provision of opium — Peter’s addendum had probably been nothing but cordial. Something about the flooding, apparently.

Tony kept glaring at the letter, his fingers twitching and frown deepening the longer he looked. In some places, the ink was bleeding through the back of the parchment, innocent and polite negotiations determined to haunt him even if he couldn’t make them out.

Although… Peter hadn’t _needed_ Rogers to give him opium, right? Didn’t he say he’d had the ingredients for the poison for months, that he’d had at least thirty chances to kill Tony? So why had he thought…?

 _Beck_ , he remembered, lip curling up in disgust. Beck had speculated about intrigue between Peter and Rogers. Of an opium trade between them. He’d been incorrect, apparently, but how was he supposed to have known?

Tony shook his head and scoffed, mumbling under his breath. Beck was the root of this — going through Peter’s things and bringing his suspicions to his liege. Thinking of the knight left anger and irritation festering in Tony’s chest, but… that was unreasonable, wasn’t it? The truth was, Beck had just been doing his job, and he’d been right: Peter _had_ made a plan to kill Tony.

But Tony was less and less certain that he didn’t _deserve_ to be killed.

 _Didn’t I have every right to kill you… Why_ aren’t _you dead, Tony?_

Why _wasn’t_ he dead? In ten years, no stray arrow or infected wound or camp disease had found its way to his heart? Part of Tony wished he had just died a few years ago; a consequence of overextending himself or his army. Before he’d ever set his sights on Arachne.

Or further back, even. Before the blood-soaked disaster in Kunira, or before he’d invaded any nations or hurt anyone at all. What if he’d just stayed in Ferrum, kept a strong defence and bolstered his own people? Had satisfied himself with merely resisting Vanko and Killian and those like them? They’d tried to take advantage of Ferrum’s weak new bastard king; what if he’d just defended against their raids and assaults instead of counterattacking and seizing their kingdoms?

Or, what if he’d just let Howard be? As terrible as he’d been as a parent and a ruler, had it still been wrong to kill him? Tony swallowed hard, doubt and fear burning behind his eyes.

A knock at the door drew his attention. When he sat up, he quickly lifted a hand to wipe his face. He hadn’t realised he was weeping, _shaking_ even, but he was. He relaxed the slightest bit when the door opened and Happy poked his head in.

“Want some company?”

Tony shrugged and stood up. Happy opened the door the rest of the way and helped Rhodey balance as they crossed to the drawing room. Tony folded Rogers’ letter and made a mental note to send it on to Peter first thing in the morning. Then he followed his friends. They lit the candles in the drawing room and settled in the same green armchairs they’d used when...

The night of Bradley Davis’ trial. The first night Peter made tea for Tony.

 _I’ve been serving you tea for over_ six weeks _. You want a good reason not to have me killed? I could have killed you thirty times over_ at least _! But I_ didn’t _because I thought you were_ trying _, I thought there was some_ good _in you._

Tony had to fight to pull his mind out of the wretched cycle that it would all-too-easily collapse into. He could relive Peter’s words, could berate himself with insults of _monster_ and _butcher_ and _murderer_ and _hypocrite_ , could wallow in the Prince’s grief and anger for months.

But would that help anything? It certainly wouldn’t help Peter.

Tony took the glass of spiced rum Happy offered him and squeezed it until his knuckles turned white. Rhodey settled back in his own chair with a sigh of relief.

Happy levelled his gaze on Tony before lifting his glass in the air, “A toast,” he said, voice solemn and quiet, “Happy Birthday, Morgan Stark,”

“To Morgan,” Tony and Rhodey echoed, leaning forward to clink their glasses.

The rum was dry but sweet, sending a warm current through Tony’s chest as he took a sip. They were all silent for a moment; Tony missed Bruce’s presence, and wondered how much longer he would be gone.

“How old would she be?” Happy asked, studying his glass like maybe the drink would provide the answer. He raised an eyebrow in Tony’s direction, “Fifteen?”

“Fifteen.” Tony nodded, one hand fluttering to the brand on his chest. What would he do if he couldn’t rub at it? Wring his hands? Bite his nails? Grind his teeth?

If he didn’t have the brand, if he hadn’t needed to go to Howard in the first place, then maybe Morgan wouldn’t be dead. Maybe she would have grown up with him in Ferrum. Maybe they would have just… been happy.

Poor and powerless and happy.

“That’s almost old enough to think of marriage,” Rhodey grinned at Tony, “Not that anyone would have been good enough.”

“Peter would have been good enough.”

Tony said it immediately and with absolute certainty. Happy and Rhodey exchanged a look and Tony dug his nails harder into his chest. Peter and Morgan were both good people who deserved the world and had it taken from them.

In so many words, anyway.

“Tony,”

Tony glanced at Rhodey for a moment but then pulled his gaze away. He took another sip of his drink and kept it in his mouth too long, letting the alcohol simmer and then burn.

“You gonna tell us what happened?” Happy raised both eyebrows, “You know everyone around here is saying you’re pissed at him because he stepped out.”

Rhodey added, “Or that you’re really disgusted by his boozing.”

“We think it’s all a load of shit, but people are taking bets,” Happy shrugged a bit helplessly, like there was nothing to be done about it. Tony fought not to sigh and roll his eyes. He felt certain that gossip and bets, if they even existed, would have been much quieter in Benjamin Parker’s castle. What was the point of any of this? Tony couldn’t ever live up to that man, apparently he could barely measure up to his own father.

“What happened?” Rhodey asked softly, “Why was he hungover? What was all the shouting about?”

Tony sighed, he didn’t actually know _why_ Peter had been hungover. He hadn’t even known that had been the case until he’d heard it whispered a couple days later; he’d thought the Prince had been pale and unsteady from fear or fatigue. But then again, with everything that had happened in the past few months, why _shouldn’t_ Peter have drunk himself sick? Tony was all too familiar with the numb relief a few drinks provided.

“I messed up,” Tony coughed and kept his chin pointed downward, eyes off of his friends. “I… ruined Peter’s life… I— I made him...” He trailed off, thinking about what Peter had worked on the past few months, what he’d almost gone through with. What had Tony _done_ to him?

He had taken this kind, gentle, courageous Prince and forced his hand, warped his heart and turned him toward dark intentions — wasn’t that his fault? “And I can’t fix it,” Tony’s voice broke and he realised his hands were shaking.

Happy leaned forward and plucked the glass out of his hand. Tony nodded furtively to him and flexed his fingers. He opened and closed his fists in agitation.

_I don’t want your absolution._

_It_ can’t _be fixed._

Tony kept talking, his words running into each other, “I invaded his country, killed his friends, killed his _family_ — maybe did all of it on false intelligence, but whether or not that’s true doesn’t matter because I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have done this in the first place…”

_How many families have you destroyed in the past ten years?_

God, what would Pepper think if she could see him now?

Maybe Peter was right. Tony’s life was probably more than worth sacrificing, if it could stop all of this pain and death.

How had everything gone so… wrong? This was never where he’d intended to end up. He’d wanted to punish Howard and then he’d wanted to protect Ferrum, to help other people, other families, and somehow… he’d ended up here. With a husband who’d plotted his death and more enemies than he could count. Even his own heart and mind were eating away at him.

Rhodey shifted his weight on his chair. He planted his foot on the floor and leaned forward, wincing only slightly at the movement. He clasped his drink in both hands and stared straight at Tony.

“You’re right.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up at him. Happy started to add, “Well —”

But Rhodey cut him off, “You messed up. You messed _him_ up.” His lips twitched, his grimace rueful and bitter. He opened his hands upward, like a shrug or a question, a challenge to make the past three months _matter_. “You can’t change it. You can’t reverse it. You can’t fix it. But there’s gotta be _something_ you can do to make it better. What is it?”

Rhodey didn’t look at his leg when he spoke — the place where his leg used to be, that is — but Tony did.

 _Better._ What could he do to make it _better_? Did that mean turning something from terrible to just _bad_? Did it mean carrying on like this? Making sure Peter was eating and sleeping and otherwise staying out of his way?

What could Tony do to make things better than they were right now?

“ _Jarvis, if I wanted to… leave Arachne, wanted to let Peter out of the contract — out of the marriage, what would that look like?”_

_“…You mean a divorce, milord?”_

Jarvis had sat with him for a while today, discussing what grounds Peter and Tony might have to dissolve the marriage.

_“Would you accuse him of abuse, milord? Has he hurt you or injured you?”_

_“Peter has better grounds than I do on that account.”_

_“Well, denial of children doesn’t apply…” Jarvis seemed nervous to ask, “Denial of marital rights?”_

_A lengthy pause._

_Eventually, Tony said, “I never asked.”_

_Jarvis fidgeted and his jaw tightened. He said, “I see,” But he couldn’t disguise the slight crack in his voice, “Milord, forgive me this — and I know the circumstances of our siege made this marriage a complicated one — but relations tend to be improved when you know that your partner —”_

_“Ah, that’s not —” Tony interrupted Jarvis but then cut himself off. They stared at one another cautiously. “Jarvis, I mean Peter and I have never…”_

_“Oh,” Jarvis’ brow twitched, “Not once? Your wedding night…?”_

_“Like you said, the circumstances made it… complicated.”_

_Jarvis nodded, relief easing through him, “Well then, milord. You have no legal grounds for divorce. But, given that it hasn’t been consummated, the marriage can be annulled. At least by Ferrum’s law.”_

_“What would that mean for Peter?”_

_“The contract is voided, the marriage never existed… and either the war resumes or Ferrum leaves Arachne’s territory.”_

_Jarvis said this nervously, like he thought it would be a hard decision for Tony. Maybe it would have been, three months ago._

_“We’ll withdraw,” He said, “Look into this, Jarvis. Look into what needs to happen, how best to protect Peter and Arachne’s interests in the process.”_

_“Of course, milord.”_

_“And Jarvis? Not a word of our conversation leaves this office. Tell no one, not even your wife.”_

The thought of leaving left Tony feeling hollow. But it would probably be best for Peter, and Tony knew that Arachne had an ally in Steven Rogers… Ferrum could certainly continue to provide support if it was needed.

This would be a good thing, Tony thought. He could focus on his own territories, ‘curb his bloodlust _’_ as Rogers had put it. Peter could have his country back and be rid of at least one constant, painful reminder of what had happened.

Tony stood up slowly, giving his friends a wan smile. “I’m gonna… Go for a walk,” he said softly, “Thank you for coming,”

“You mean you’re gonna go mope in the tower again?” Happy sighed when he looked up at Tony. Rhodey didn’t say anything but his lips were turned down a bit, concern etched into his eyes.

Tony rolled his eyes, “It’s Morgan’s birthday, I’m allowed to mope a little,” he grumbled, and they shared sympathetic smiles before letting him go.

Tony lit a lantern and then made his way to the southern tower. To the office overlooking the city, to the place where he met Peter. To where he’d hit him and said vile things to coerce him into just saying _yes_ , just stopping the fighting, just giving in.

Tony should never have done that, he saw that now. He should have given Peter the benefit of the doubt from day one, should have asked about his couriers and spoken to him like the king he should have become. Peter should have been treated with respect, treated like Tony’s equal, from the start.

Tony hadn’t spent any time here until the past ten days. And now he found himself in the quiet office, suspended high over the city, almost every morning and evening. It was hard to say precisely why, but it was a calm space — clean and tidy and there was never anyone there. It was an easy place to think.

When this was over, when the marriage was annulled — or the divorce was finalised, or whatever needed to be done was finished with… When Tony left and Peter took Arachne’s throne and some time had passed… could Arachne and Ferrum be allies? Could he and Peter be… Friends of some kind? Or at least not enemies?

It would probably be better for Tony to just leave and never come back, though. To cut himself off from Peter, to become just a bad memory in Arachne’s history; a scary story to frighten disobedient children with.

Tony put his lantern down on the desk in the middle of the office. The light painted the room in flickering streaks of gold and cut the space apart with black shadows. There were a couple of windows but not much moonlight coming in, Tony looked around the space where everything had started — and started wrong.

But… no. This wasn’t where it had started. This is where he and Peter met, but his anger and ambition had started things months before, maybe years ago. This place wasn’t anything to Tony; he didn’t have any right to it.

This was where Michelle Jones had died, where Peter had defiantly thrown his uncle’s crown from the window in order to stop Tony from wearing it, where their marriage had been agreed to under siege and duress.

He needed to talk to Peter again. No matter how much the thought made his chest ache and his eyes prickle and his head throb. If there was going to be an annulment, or a repair, or _anything_ , if he was going to make it _better_ , then Peter had earned the right to be at the table, to be part of the conversation.

He hadn’t even earned it, really. He had always had it. Always been good and smart and eloquent and —

He had always been enough.

Tony looked toward the window where he’d pinned Peter, remembering white flashes of lightning under grey clouds. He hadn’t seen a violet rain since that day. Did it only happen in summer? Or were the colours simply arbitrary, always different, impossible to predict?

Footsteps in the hall made Tony turn around. Something in his chest tightened. His mind supplied a quivering, hopeful _Peter_? Even though there was no reason for Peter to be here. It should just be Tony in the tower right now, him and the ghost of Michelle Jones.

There _was_ someone at the door, but they were too tall and too broad to be Peter. They lifted a lantern to cast extra light around the room and Tony had to fight not to scowl.

“Oh. I’m sorry, milord, I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here.”

Quentin Beck smiled at him.

Tony was starting to think Happy was right: Beck smiled too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone ☺️  
> Sorry for skipping last week on posting (and also doubly-sorry because I think this chapter is really boring? But it'll be worth it, I think.) Anyway don't mind me being a huge Agent Carter fan, the first half of this chapter is really just a very gratuitous nod to the show 😅. If you haven't seen it, I'd recommend it! Jarvis and Ana are delightful ☺️☺️☺️  
> I super-pinky-promise that I'll be here next Thursday to post ❤️❤️ I love you all so much and hope you have a great week. Thanks as always to my betareader Silver Lurker.  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	25. Snake Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck apologises to Tony and asks for the king's advice, giving a chance for Tony to reflect on marriage and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Warnings include spoilers so check the end notes!

“I’m actually glad to see you, milord. I-I’ve been wanting to ask your advice on something. And I’d like to apologise about everything with Prince Peter… But I can leave, if you’d prefer. I understand if I’m the last person you want to see right now.”

Not quite _the last person_ , but Beck was pretty high up on the list.

Tony didn’t answer for a moment; he didn’t really _want_ to entertain Beck. But then again, his anger at the knight was probably better directed at himself.

“You can come in. I’m not mad at _you_ ,” Tony reluctantly waved Beck into the room. He laughed but the sound croaked and fell rather flat, “At least, I _shouldn’t_ be mad at you.”

Beck hesitated just a moment, but then stepped further into the tower. He was holding his lantern in his left hand and a small messenger bag was slung over one shoulder. The bag clinked with each step. His smile looked a bit strained in the dim light, shadows flickered across his face.

“Still, milord, I hope you’ll accept my apology,” Beck kept his distance, like he was scared of retribution from the King. It made Tony feel a bit ill; he was sick of other people looking at him like that.

Beck continued, voice placating and gentle, “I had hoped I was wrong about those ingredients and wrong about the Prince — and I was sorry to jeopardise my friendship with him… I didn’t want to, I just didn’t know what to do with that information — and-and I was worried that if something happened…” Beck trailed off, almost like he was waiting for Tony to pick up the conversation for him.

When Tony didn’t say anything, Beck finished, “I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything between you.”

Well, Beck _was_ the reason Tony had confronted Peter. But he wasn’t the reason Peter had made that poison, he wasn’t at fault for what the Prince had almost done.

Tony found himself shaking his head, wanting to absolve Beck if no one else, “It’s alright, you were right to bring it to me,” The tension eased out of Beck’s shoulders. He set his lantern on the desk beside Tony’s.

Tony watched Beck’s hand fall to the desk then slip to the strap of his bag. They were both quiet for a moment: standing, waiting, lingering…

Tony’s hand started to lift to his chest but he stopped and turned away from Beck instead. He walked slowly toward the window, he just wanted to be left alone again with his thoughts and memories and regrets.

Then Beck spoke, “Is this… where you met the Prince?” 

Tony put his hand on the windowsill. He thought about that pale purple rain and the first time he’d seen Peter: a mop of dark hair over pale skin and scorched eyes, with his shoulders hunched and lips pursed and clothes rumpled and limbs trembling, his knuckles bone-white as they clenched around Arachne’s royal crown.

_I wouldn’t do that if I were you._

_I’m going to need that crown, kid._

It had been a test in obedience, a challenge to see if the young prince would be as careless and puerile as Tony thought him to be.

Peter had thrown the crown anyway, the action dripping with spite and loathing, but what else should he have done? Peter Parker might tie himself into knots attempting to bend, but he was not one to break, not even at the very end of a losing battle.

“Peter and I met here,” Tony answered Beck’s question at length, eyes still fixed on the dark world outside the window. He looked at the southern walls, could see the faint ebb of torchlight moving amongst patrols. “He surrendered Arachne and agreed to the marriage but…”

_But just because we laid down our weapons, that doesn’t mean he stopped fighting._

Peter had never needed weapons to win his battles anyway.

Tony chuckled very softly, “You know the first thing he did, when he saw me? He threw Arachne’s royal crown out this window,” he tapped the windowsill with two fingers.

He glanced back at Beck, but the knight hadn’t moved from in front of the table. Beck’s brow furrowed and his jaw shifted as he bit down hard on his words. But then that smile came back and he said from across the room, “Well, the Prince is a proud and determined young man, he’s made that clear.” Tony nodded at this and Beck added absently, “It’s a shame about the crown, though; I heard it was made of lightning-silver.”

Tony turned to him, uncertain as to whether he was more curious or more stunned.

“That crown had _lightning-silver_ in it?”

“Well… I was told the whole crown was crafted from it. I…” Beck stopped, seeming to think better of what he wanted to say.

Tony glanced back at the window, a sour, shallow disappointment twisting up in his chest. It didn’t _matter_ , not really. In fact it was almost vain to mourn the lost crown now, after all this time and when there were much greater losses to atone for. Still, for just a moment, Peter’s actions that day felt even more reckless.

But… that had been Peter’s crown. He could do whatever he wanted with it.

“I may be wrong,” Beck shrugged and flashed an apologetic smile, “But I was with a girl — a few years back, mind you — whose family was from Arachne. She used to tell me about the rains and went on and on about the treasures of the royal family: their crown which was wrought from lightning-silver and decorated with gems that held all the colours of Arachne’s rains.”

Tony nodded at this, turning the story over in his head. Beck — or the girl — must be mistaken, though. It would take decades, perhaps scores of them, to amass enough lightning-silver to smith something of that size. Perhaps it was embedded in _parts_ of the crown but certainly not made from it entirely. Not unless it was older than Arachne itself. Either way, it made Tony wish he’d actually tried to search for its remains.

Tony tugged his mind back to the present when he realised the knight was talking. Beck had put his bag down on the desk and was rummaging through it as he spoke,

“… So I’ve been coming by from time to time since it’s a quiet place to think. Wine, milord?”

Tony focused on the bottle of wine and the glass Beck had revealed.

“No thank you. I… just had a drink with Captain Hogan and General Rhodes, and should probably leave off there.”

Which was true. He was probably being paranoid but… Despite Beck’s service and loyalty for the past decade, something burned in Tony’s chest and he thought about Peter’s poison and the tea he’d been drinking. Beck was a good soldier but…

 _I swear, testifying that Ton— I’m sorry, that_ somebody _hit Peter is the only honest thing that guy’s ever done._

Bruce was rarely wrong about people.

If Beck was bothered by Tony’s rejection, he didn’t show it. He just put his wine away.

Tony, eager to finish this conversation and send him away, asked, “You said you wanted my advice?” Beck stared at him and Tony added, “When you first came in. You wanted to ask for my advice.”

Beck blushed the slightest bit but nodded, averting his eyes, “Yes, milord. And I hope this doesn’t seem… silly, when you have more pressing duties. But I think the woman I’m seeing now may be expecting a child and I-I know you cared very much for your daughter and I’m feeling very uncertain about the whole thing and…” Beck trailed off, his expression falling a bit, flustered at the realisation that he was rambling in his king’s presence. He looked downright lost, as perplexed and agitated and nervous as Tony had been when Pepper was expecting.

“It’s okay,” Tony spoke quickly, “I understand, it’s nerve-wracking and overwhelming. I’m, uhh, happy to help.”

Beck flushed with relief and started to dig through his bag again, “Thank you so much, milord, I really don’t want to intrude or pester you. I’m just… I want to do right by her and by the child.” He bit his lip as he revealed a rectangular box. The wood was dark and unfinished, no lacquer or varnish on it.

Beck practically grinned at the sight of the ring box and turned to Tony, “I know it would be hard for her to live in Arachne if we’re not married, so I got her a ring…” His gaze slid up to meet Tony’s and he looked…

_Excited._

This child was a surprise, but ultimately this seemed like something Beck was looking forward to. Tony smiled softly at the joy, at the memory of having a baby on the way, a family ahead in an otherwise dark, difficult life. He reached for the box at the same time that Beck thrust it forward; Tony winced, sucking in a breath as the wood caught and then tore against the palm of his right hand, leaving a long splinter under his skin.

“Oh god,” Beck jerked the box away as Tony swore and pulled the splinter out, droplets of blood splattering on the floor, “Milord, I’m so sorry. I didn’t –”

“It’s fine,” Tony hissed, opening and closing his hand and looking at the shallow cut and swollen red skin. He shook his head, “It’s just a scratch,” He laughed and his gaze fell on the box still tight in Beck’s hand — he looked agitated now, probably upset at having accidentally injured his king.

Tony added, “Maybe just invest in a better box,” hoping to help Beck relax.

The knight nodded with a nervous laugh and stepped closer, offering a white handkerchief, “Milord, allow me.”

“That’s not necessary, it’s barely even –”

But Tony stopped because Beck had gotten close enough and Tony’s hand was already stretched out a bit so he just said, “Oh, well…” and trailed off as Beck wrapped the wound.

“Sure you don’t want that drink now?” Beck chuckled and Tony smiled the slightest bit, shaking his head again.

“It’s alright, but…” They both looked at the ring box again. Beck gingerly picked it up and turned it over in his hands. After a moment, Tony continued, “it’s a good thing you’re doing, asking her to marry you.” It was _admirable_ , even. Not that Beck wanted to look out for the woman and his child — that should be obvious. It was admirable, Tony thought, that Beck had become so attuned to Arachne’s culture in such a short time. That he knew to get an engagement ring, that he had accepted and reacted to a disposition about unwed mothers that still left Tony baffled.

And, if he was being honest, somewhat offended.

“Yes, and I expect she’ll say yes, but it’s still —” Beck cut himself off and turned back toward their lanterns, a blush filling his cheeks, “It’s a lot of life changes happening, all at once. And… a _baby_. I’ve no idea what to expect.”

Tony pressed his thumb into the bandage on his hand, remembering the day they realised Pepper was pregnant. He had lain in bed that night with his heart beating loudly in his throat, feeling like he was trying to digest a stone. There was a sense of wonder, of course; an excitement and a new hum of energy in his life — but Beck’s trepidation and anxiety were familiar as well.

Tony pursed his lips and sighed, “You just take it one day at a time, piece it together as you go, think about the examples you’ve had in your own life — the good and the bad.” He added this at the end, thinking of Howard Stark and Brian Banner, their contrast to Pepper’s family, the values Tony had grown up with and the ones he’d seen in others. How he’d decided which ones he wanted to instil or reject.

“Rely on others, when you can,” Tony said, mind still working. He thought about Rhodey staying up with him in the months after Pepper passed, soothing his tears and the baby’s; thought about Happy chasing Morgan up and down the street and playing pretend for hours; thought about Harley protecting her in the shop and staying too late too often reviewing inventory and numbers; thought about Bruce checking Morgan’s fever and soothing her throat and scrounging up what food or coin he could offer as she got weaker and weaker.

Tony’s heartbeat picked up as tears pricked against his eyes. His thoughts drifted to Peter’s friend Betty so he asked, “Is your — is the mother healthy?”

“Yes, milord, and close by. One of Mistress Everhart’s girls,” Tony nodded and looked down at his hand again. There were a few drops of red soaking through the handkerchief, he was actually _trembling_ from thinking so much on Pepper and Morgan and he shifted his weight, clasping his hands together to stop the tremors and try to calm his racing heart.

Beck kept fiddling with the ring box, opening and closing the clasp and flipping the lid open. Tony caught sight of dull white stone set in a gold-toned alloy that, even from afar, Tony knew had little-to-no gold in it. Beck had been a knight for years; he should have the funds for a better ring and a better box.

“The Arachneans put a great deal of value into their birth rains and the corresponding stones,” Tony said, thinking about the weeks he’d spent commissioning Michelle Jones’ memorial, “There are record keepers in the city who may be able to help you find her stone and…” He hesitated, not wanting to insinuate that the gift was subpar. But if he could have gotten something more for Pepper, and as part of a wedding proposal, he certainly would have.

There was an old tradition in Ferrum: some couples used to exchange two wedding rings at the altar. An iron ring was worn at home and in private, the metal a symbol of the strength and permanence of wedding vows. Then, in more prosperous times, there had been a second ring, one made of solid gold to be worn in public, a symbol of devotion and love. Ferrum’s economy had been so stunted when Tony married Pepper that few couples had any ring at all; as it was, he could only give her the iron fede ring he’d made, the metal shaped delicately into the form of two clasped hands. He’d promised the gold one later, once the business got off the ground, once things were better…

He’d never gotten the chance to keep that promise.

Tony’s hands shifted, his fingers were still shaking as he twisted the still-new wedding ring on his left hand. A plain gold band purchased from someone Tony didn’t even know; it was a fitting symbol for the empty vows he’d made to Peter.

Beck said, “She’s not the type to worry about the cost of gifts. But she does like the rains… I’ll keep it in mind, milord, thank you,” Tony nodded and took a few shaky steps toward the desk, wincing at the vivid glare of light their lanterns gave off. It made the shadows in the room paler, and the flames seemed to grow and fade too brightly, accenting them in an eerie, shifting light.

“Well, it’s good she’s healthy,” Tony mumbled, rolling his shoulders and twisting his neck to the side, “And with the unrest here over with — it’ll be good for the child to have both of its parents,”

“Yes,” Beck’s gaze flicked Tony up and down and he clasped his hands behind his back, then he smiled again, “And I can always ask the Prince Consort for help, right? Riva said some of his books and materials were to help with pregnancy, though I can’t imagine what it was for — I suppose His Grace is the type to learn for the sake of learning.”

Tony nodded, wincing as he craned his neck back the other way and put his palms flat on the desk. The nights spent on the hard, unfamiliar cot in his office must finally be catching up to him. He took in a deep breath and said, “It’s… his friend… Betty – the Brant girl. She’s expecting and he’s been helping her.”

“Ah,” Beck chuckled, “I don’t want to speak for you, milord, but I find it quite striking how much has happened since I first took him to that bakery, since Davis’ trial… since I brought her to your quarters that morning… it’s nice to think about, though. About how much we’ve achieved here, how far the nation has come.”

“Yes,” Tony winced and tried to lift his hand to rub his chest. He looked back at the window, his pulse so loud that he could count each beat of his heart in between his ears. He took in another laboured breath, remembered Peter throwing that crown — a crown made from _lightning-silver_ , no less — and — and…

“Beck,” Tony turned back again, grunting when he tried to push himself up from leaning on the desk, “You said, a woman you were…” he stopped, losing his words in a muddle of thoughts, wondering what was safe to say. What Beck might be planning to do. 

_I was with a girl whose family was from Arachne. She used to tell me about the rains and went on and on about the treasures of the royal family._

If Beck had known about Arachne, had known its rains were not horrifically dangerous — that red rain did not cause burns and they hadn’t needed to waste resources and time trying to prepare for it — wouldn’t he have let them know? And if there were any riches worth protecting, wouldn’t he have told Tony before they invaded? Wouldn’t he have offered this information to their intelligence and their army?

Tony thought about Beck finding him here alone, the offered wine, the cheap ring, the rambling story. He wondered if he was just being paranoid, if all of this could be easily explained away but…

His right knee buckled beneath him and Tony’s eyes trailed to where the splinter had cut his palm, then the tawdry little box Beck was waving around.

Bruce was _rarely_ wrong about people.

Tony reached for his lantern, deciding between making an escape to find other soldiers or swinging it to hit Beck, but his arm spasmed and then froze. He grunted and almost knocked the lantern off the desk as he started to fall.

“Milord!” Beck lurched forward, steadying the lantern and then putting his hands under Tony’s arms to lift him up. Tony heaved for air as Beck helped him to sit down.

“It’s awfully cold up here, milord, could be hard on anyone’s joints,” Beck offered. Tony’s eyes slid to his wedding ring. He tried to lift it but found he could barely move his arm.

“Or...” Beck’s voice drew his attention, and Tony dragged his eyes back to the knight. He parted his lips, wanted to say something, but his voice wouldn’t work. Beck smirked as he lifted ring box in his hand.

He locked eyes with Tony.

“Hemlock causes paralysis. Did you know that?”

Beck stepped closer, until he was standing right above Tony and he reached down, yanking his hair back so they were staring at each other.

“Did you read that in the Prince’s notes, milord? Or were your thoughts so clouded by anger that you didn’t even notice?” He clicked his tongue, like he was disappointed in Tony. Like the conqueror had not been enough of a challenge to conquer.

“The wine would have been easier, and this whole affair has been messier than I wanted it to be. _Rushed_.” Beck’s nostrils flared and irritation flashed in his eyes, “But I don’t know how much longer I have before Banner comes back. Before those little guards return to keep an eye on Peter. And that would have made everything so much harder. So this will have to do.”

Beck grinned, teeth glinting in the light like a predator’s. He held the ring box close to Tony’s eye to show where the edge had been gouged out. Where the splinter — which must have been soaked in poison — had been prepared.

“I confess I didn’t know how long it would take, or if I would be lucky enough to break skin… What do you think, Your Highness? If I threw this out the window would it disappear like that crown you let Peter destroy?”

Tony tried to speak again, and thought maybe his lips twitched a bit, but otherwise he felt trapped; Stuck in this chair, muscles frozen, eyes on Beck.

Beck put the box down on the desk with a _snap_ and one hand snaked into his bag again. He sighed in exaggerated relief as he revealed a short amber flask.

“I prefer whiskey myself,” Beck remarked, unstopping the bottle and throwing back a few long sips. He smacked his lips when he lowered the flask and that unsettling, vulpine smile settled across his face again, “Though I must say I agree with Peter that whiskey and wine don’t mix well. But it can serve its purpose... just a couple glasses, and he doesn’t drink much… poor thing never knew what hit him.” 

_Serve its purpose_ … Tony would have clenched his jaw, would have curled his hand into a fist, would have burst from the chair and beat Beck senseless if he could have. What had he done to Peter? Laced his drink? Gotten him drunk to what end? What damn _purpose_ had that served him?

But Beck was putting his liquor down and his hand was in the bag again. He moved at a leisurely pace, pulling out a long, straight hunting knife with the edge curved upward.

“You’ll be like this a while,” Beck murmured, lowering himself so he was squatting a bit. His voice sounded almost comforting, “Unable to move a muscle,” His hand shot down and pain flashed up Tony’s body as the knife was embedded into his left thigh. Beck exhaled at the same time that a searing agony rippled its way out along Tony’s leg, into his fingertips and to his scalp. But Tony didn’t so much as twitch. Beck’s smile returned, blue eyes shimmering as they took in the blood soaking Tony’s pants and the power at his disposal.

“I’ll be damned,” Beck murmured, he sounded nearly _reverent_ , like he was surprised it had worked. Surprised that Tony had been subdued so quickly, so completely. He looked up at Tony again, but he wasn’t merely _excited_ now. He wasn’t a young soldier overwhelmed by the prospect of fatherhood, wasn’t even an enemy seeking justice. There was a madness in his eyes, in the curl of his fingers as he ripped the knife out of Tony’s leg and seemed to consider the possibilities.

“If you’ll excuse my own self-indulgence,” Beck was nearly panting with his own sick relief. He placed the knife against Tony’s knee and dragged the blade upward, a straight, savage cut right through the first stab wound, “I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time.”

Another cut, this one small and horizontal and higher up, almost on Tony’s pelvic bone. When Beck spoke again, his words were slow, like he was savouring them as much as the opportunity to hurt Tony.

“You know I ordered those survivors to be killed in Kunira? It was stupid of me, in retrospect. I realised that almost immediately; that was one of your first campaigns and I hadn’t exactly put together that you’re not your father… that if civilian lives were going to be lost under you, it had to be an _accident_ ,” On this last word he drove the knife deep into Tony’s leg again, eliciting a sharp gasp of air and a growl of pain. Tony’s fingers and ankles twitched the slightest bit, but Beck didn’t notice or didn’t care — probably knew he didn’t need to worry about it.

“Still, a conquering king ordering widows and children to be murdered? It was easy to spread rumours after that, to claim you were a butcher and a madman. That kings and queens were better off running or surrendering… you have to admit it made some wars easier, didn’t it?” Beck twisted the knife viciously and then hummed, looking down at his handiwork, blue eyes glowing dimly.

“You’ll stop breathing eventually,” Beck said, “Peter’s plan was kinder than mine. No cuts, no blood, no pain. He’s a good kid,” His smile curved up even more at this, Beck’s pupils dilated and there was something… something dark and lecherous in his expression. It made Tony feel sick, to say nothing of the insult to Peter — who was far more than _a_ _good kid_.

“I’m glad I kept him around,” Beck’s eyes flicked up to meet Tony’s for just a moment, then he looked again at his knife as he slowly pulled it out. He straightened up, turning the blade over in his hand and watching blood drip onto the floor. Tony kept watching him, fury threading into his limbs and squeezing in his chest, continuing to build and fester but unable to be let out. It just felt like his muscles were getting tighter, his body stiller.

“I wanted you to invade Arachne,” Beck spoke a bit absently, eyeing the King like he was a particularly disgusting rodent, “that’s why I forged all those letters and reports, Benjamin Parker had such an elegant script, didn’t he? Neater than his nephew’s.”

The longer Beck stared at Tony, the more disgusted he looked. But at the mention of Benjamin, Tony’s mind burned with the memories of a hot afternoon and the stench of sweat and the glint of blood under sunlight. Why _shouldn’t_ Beck be disgusted with him? Why shouldn’t everyone?

Beck’s mouth kept parting and he worked his jaw like he had too many things on his mind, and he couldn’t decide on just one thing to say. Eventually he scoffed, “You had good reason to attack some of them, milord. Ivan Vanko, Aldrich Killian, Obadiah Stane… even your dear father,” When Beck looked at him again, his eyes seemed to cut into Tony, a hardened, bright blue like ice. So cold that it somehow made Tony’s skin burn.

“I was personally inspired by the efforts of Justin Hammer,” Beck grinned, “He’s a wretched little worm, isn’t he?” Beck’s lip curled at the thought of a man just like him, “Tricking us into invading innocent lands — well, Manfredi and Cross were innocent of offenses against _you_ , at any rate — and all to suit his own agenda… But Hammer had too many loose ends, too many forgers and spies and rats to roll on him. _I_ brought us here to Arachne, to this wealth and this flourishing nation and our _sweet prince._ And I did it by _myself_.”

Beck looked downright proud of himself, and he barely paused for a breath before continuing. It was probably a relief to finally speak the truth of what he’d done,

“I must have intercepted dozens of couriers and soldiers to launch this war, to win you this land. I thought you were going to do what you always do; I thought you were going to take the crown, put someone else in charge, and move on — you would have put _me_ in charge.” Beck scoffed and shook his head. His gaze darted to the window as he twirled the knife in his fingers.

Given everything else, it was probably an inane detail to focus on, but Tony desperately wanted to shout that he would _not_ have put Beck in charge. That Beck would have been better served fighting in their army and he was perfectly mad to feel so entitled to such a trusted position.

But Beck being mad was rather obvious at this point.

“You don’t even know what you’re missing here. You don’t know the wealth Arachne has accumulated and hidden away from the world. But if we opened its borders? Opened trade? Arachne could have the most powerful throne in the world — no longer an ignored, isolated nation in the corner of the map.” Beck leaned in close, so their faces were inches apart; he lifted a hand to grab Tony’s chin, digging his nails into his cheek and pressing his thumb against the King’s throat.

“I didn’t expect the marriage offer, and I especially didn’t think you would accept,” Beck’s voice was low, “I need to thank you for getting to Peter first, though, because I was going to kill him. I’d hoped to run him through before your last messenger reached him, but I was too late. Your rider made it to the city gate and passed the proposal on before I was able to stop him. And then! _Then_! That conniving little bitch, that stupid haughty _armsman,_ had to run me ragged through every street in the city.” Beck’s eyes were narrowed to slits, pale in the low light behind him. It made Tony think of a serpent; a snake winding its way through grass, armed with pen strokes and honeyed words, waiting to rear its head and strike.

To make use of the venom hidden in its fangs.

“By the time I finally found the Prince, you were already with him. The girl was dead. I decided I needed to wait to kill him,” Beck’s smile got even wider and he stepped back, picking his knife up again, “I don’t think either of us were expecting how perfect Peter was going to be.” Beck turned his face toward the door, “He loves me, I know he does. He _must_ , or he would have told you about… I made a mistake a few weeks ago, let my emotions get the best of me, I needed to be gentler with him.” He looked down at the blade, lips pouting just the slightest bit. Tony thought it was probably the closest Beck had ever come to remorse in his life.

“He’s still faithful to his word, though. No matter how much he must hate you. But with you gone, there will be nothing left to stand in my way,” Beck stepped forward and with a clean, practiced stroke he buried the knife into Tony’s chest.

A puff of air escaped Tony and some part of him jerked back, but that was it. An excruciating blaze roared in his chest and left him sputtering and choking to breathe, not even sure that he could.

“ _Tsk_ , missed the heart. That’s a painful way to go,” Beck smirked as he stepped back, leaving the blade buried inside Tony’s chest. Tony was certain that he hadn’t missed at all.

“He’s going to marry me, Your Grace. But don’t worry, I’m going to take care of him. As long as he stays in his place, he’ll be perfectly safe; more content with a faithful knight than he could be with his uncle’s murderer.”

Beck stared down his nose at the blade lodged in Tony’s chest. He put his index finger on the handle but didn’t make a move to pull it out. He moved in a flash, digging his hand into Tony’s hair and yanking him off the chair. Tony grunted when he hit the floor, still frozen and unable to move, now lying on his side staring up at Beck, at the desk and the door and, he was sure, the last moments of his life.

“Close your eyes if you can, Your _‘Highness’_ ,” Beck walked around the desk, retrieving his bag and bending low to blow out Tony’s lantern, “It will be hard on your friends if one of them has to do it for you.”

There was a rustle of movement, and then Beck was leaving the tower. Tony listened to his retreating footsteps and his own thumping heartbeat, the loudest sound in an otherwise dark, empty room.

Tony probably deserved this, he knew that.

But Peter didn’t.

And even now, even dying, all he could hear was Peter’s voice in his head.

Of course _I had a poison. You know what another word for poison is?_ Medicine.

Wasn’t this just medicine running its course, doing its job? Destroying the disease which had infected Arachne.

_I can’t forgive you for Ben._

_He sacrificed_ everything _so that I could live._

Tony could barely make out the handle of the knife in his chest and, with a few laboured breaths, he closed his eyes.

_Marry him, then. If you can do nothing else, then please, marry him._

The wedding ring felt frigid on Tony’s finger.

He wondered what he would tell Benjamin when he saw him.

Nothing at all, probably.

He had failed to protect Peter.

There was nothing left to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update, Jan 30: Chapter 26 will be posted on February 4. Just a bit more revising to do but it's all drafted and mostly ready to go! 💜💛  
> Update, Jan 20: Sorry folks! Between all the getting-back-to-school and some difficulties at work, Chapter 26 won't be up on time (Jan 21) but I hope I'll be able to get it up by the end of the weekend. As usual, it would be next Thursday at the latest.
> 
> Original Author's Note:  
> Warnings: Poisoning, splinters, blood, a little knife torture, stabbing, a lot of discussion of long-term manipulation. Tony is conscious but can't move for a long time in this chapter (paralysis.) Discussion and reflection on dead characters, war, loss, etc.
> 
> Chapter Summary: Beck and Tony talk about Beck's lover, who he says is expecting a baby. Beck plans to propose to her and moves to show Tony the ring, there is a splinter planted in the edge of the ring box and this cuts Tony and poisons him. As Tony grows weaker and paralysis sets in, Beck reveals that he is behind forging documents to get Ferrum to invade Arachne, that he wanted to be named Viceroy of Arachne and was annoyed when Tony stayed there and married Peter instead. However, Beck now plans to kill Tony, marry Peter, and take that power anyway. Beck ends by stabbing Tony in the chest then leaving him in the tower.
> 
> Hi everyone! Bleargh, is anyone else's skin crawling?? I liked it better when Peter had the spotlight in the dialogue-heavy chapter... 😅 I'll see you all next week ☺️☺️ Many thanks to my betareader Silver Lurker!  
> Have a good one,  
> Grace


	26. Travel Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter celebrates a holiday with his friends. Beck offers to escort him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Warnings include spoilers so check the end notes!

With the exception of a little blood under his fingernail, Quentin was having a rather phenomenal evening.

King Anthony had been laughably easy to deal with; his despondent walks in the abandoned tower were predictable, and he’d always had a soft spot — a _weakness_ , as far as Quentin was concerned — for stories about family and children. It was all very simple, and Quentin made sure to bring contingencies in case the wine wasn’t accepted or the ring box untouched.

With poison in his veins and a knife in his chest, the King would die tonight. That much, Quentin was sure of. Hopefully the poison would go unnoticed due to the knife, and the time of death would be declared long after Quentin had left the scene. But it never hurt to overplan, so Quentin decided to find Peter and secure both of their alibis.

Tonight and the next day were Selfall, some sort of Arachnean holiday. But holidays here were odd to Quentin. They were all fasts instead of feasts and prayers instead of parties. There were some coloured candles and bright tapestries illuminating windows; during the day, people had taken chalk to the walls and streets, drawing complex landscapes with vivid colours. But there was also a quiet to it all, the Arachneans were reserved, and now that night had fallen the streets were empty. Everyone seemed to be sequestered in their own homesteads, celebrating individually.

But, on a night as cold as this, he guessed that made _some_ sense.

Quentin made his way to Mrs. Brant’s bakery clutching his flask of whiskey. He took a couple swallows to distract himself from the cold and let his thoughts drift to Peter and hot skin under warm sheets. It would be so satisfying to _properly_ take him to bed, to scour away the King’s touch and to indulge in everything he’d worked so hard for.

There was soft light pouring out of the bakery windows, and Quentin knocked gently at the front door. A Ferrumean soldier greeted him, though the man’s smile faded and his back went rigid once he recognised Quentin.

“Sir Quentin!” The soldier saluted as Quentin stepped in. Across the bakery, Peter’s second escort scrambled to his feet and they both looked at him expectantly, wincing under the blast of cold air from outside.

“You can relax,” Quentin plastered a smile on his face and waved toward the door, “I’m just here to relieve you. Prince Peter asked that I escort him home tonight.”

The soldiers exchanged a glance, but if they thought this claim was strange they didn’t show it.

Victoria had always gone to great lengths to keep secrets, and that remained true now. After the Prince and the King fought, she chided other servants for gossiping and even snapped at Quentin when he asked her for details: _“I brought him some water and promised I’d get the King for him. That’s all I’m telling you, Quen. The Prince deserves his privacy like anyone else!”_ But that didn’t stop castle guards from whispering that Peter had been hungover; it didn’t stop rumours spreading about the cut on Peter’s cheek and the reason the King and the Prince were no longer sharing a bed.

Quentin didn’t mind the gossip, though he did have to break up a fight between Davis and one of the boys in the kitchen.

The squabble had presented a golden opportunity to lift Davis’ knife. It was a modest steel blade with a sunstone in the pommel, currently soaked in poison and buried in King Anthony’s chest.

Davis had plenty of reason to hate the King. Even if use of the poison was discovered, he had access to hemlock and the other ingredients in the castle gardens. He would be easy to blame, and the story would be easy to believe. It was all very neat.

Quentin liked when things like that worked out.

If the soldiers tonight suspected that Quentin was part of an affair with Peter, they didn’t give any indication. They gathered their cloaks and lanterns, Mrs. Brant emerged from the back with a friendly smile and invited Quentin to sit and offered him a drink.

“The kids and the Prince may still be a while, Sir Quentin.”

Quentin waved off her concerns, “That’s alright, ma’am. It’s the Prince’s time to do with as he pleases, and it’s nice to spend a holiday with your own people.” Mrs. Brant hummed her agreement at this and Quentin took a seat, folding his hands and leaning toward her across the counter, “While I have you, could you tell me a bit more about Selfall? I keep thinking, if Arachne is going to be my new home, then I really ought to know more about it.”

Mrs. Brant nodded quite seriously at this, “The Arachnean people will appreciate that, Sir Quentin. I wish more men in the castle thought like you,” She paused, considering her words carefully, “Well, Selfall celebrates the last full moon of the harvest season...”

* * *

“...And so as the harvest comes to a close, as the skies grey and the earth prepares for winter’s grasp, debts are forgiven and quarrels are set aside. Under the full moon, the veil thins between the spirit realm and ours, and those departed may journey to the world of the living to visit. Spirits may linger among us for reasons benevolent or malicious, but will return to their place as the sun sets again on Selfall.”

Bennett’s voice was solemn and steady as he read from an Arachnean book of religious rites.

Peter and Brad had scheduled this visit intentionally on Selfall Eve. For the first time in Arachne’s history, the castle showed no signs of preparation for the holiday, or even acknowledgment that it was happening. So Peter brought Brad to the bakery and they stayed late through the evening, breaking their fast over supper with the Brants and drinking cider spiced with cinnamon and ginger and cloves.

In the last few years, Peter hadn’t given a lot of thought to the spiritual or religious significance of holidays; he simply went through the motions and rites expected, kept up with traditions and appearances. But this year he wondered about the stories of people who reunited with loved ones on Selfall, and he found that everything felt a bit more dignified and sincere.

Come morning, he would pray at the graves of his parents and Aunt May, would accompany Brad to Michelle’s memorial, and would meet Betty at Ned’s headstone. He had nearly resolved to ask Tony about Uncle Ben’s body, about provision of a memorial for the late king, if nothing else. If Selfall was an opportunity to settle affairs between the living and the dead, then tomorrow would probably be the best time to bring it up.

But the thought of even seeing Tony —let alone talking to him about _Ben —_ left Peter feeling weak and numb.

After evening fell and old customs had been observed, Peter revealed the book he’d brought from the castle library: an illustrated volume of children’s fables and legends about Arachne. He could vaguely remember his parents reading it to him when he was little. They were all, technically, too old to indulge in old tales like this, but Peter thought it was appropriate with the baby on the way.

It wasn’t the exact same book they had when they were young, but Betty and Bennett and Brad all recognised the stories and so they quickly found themselves poring over thick vellum pages and admiring the bright colours and glimmering lines of gold and silver which accented the book.

They flipped aimlessly through the myths and swapped stories about the differences in the versions they’d heard growing up. They read familiar legends about a spider who sought creativity, a king punished for his greed, and a wizard who misused his powers. Peter asked to skip the one about the yeoman who overthrew a corrupt king and was awarded the throne; even knowing this park-keeper was probably the founder of Arachne’s royal family, the origin of _Parker_ , the legend felt a bit off this year.

The rains came up in each story, different colours serving as a symbol for each theme. They read until the sun went down and then lit lanterns and kept reading in the flickering light until they burned low.

“Do you think the baby can hear this?” Bennett asked, stifling a yawn.

“You mean our voices?” Peter asked and Bennett nodded. They had been seated at the table for a while but as the evening wore on and Betty’s back began to ache, they found themselves lounging with pillows on the floor; it was undignified and childish but Peter felt it was also a relief. The low light and late hour and the company of friends, of people who knew these stories and who shared these childhood experiences and traditions, gave him a sense of ease that he was reluctant to leave behind.

“Babies react to voices once they’re born, so it can probably hear us, or at least Betty.” Peter said eventually, “But I don’t know if it can… make out what we’re saying or anything.”

“Well, there’s no harm in teaching him about his home a little bit early,” Betty grinned down at her stomach and put both hands on the bump, “And who better to hear it from than his uncle and our friends?”

“You know it’s a boy?” Brad spoke up from where he was leaning between the wall and the steps.

“She has a _hunch_ ,” Bennett snickered, “Even though Peter’s made it clear there’s no way to know,”

“Mom says she knew with both of us,” Betty answered with a smug smile. Peter looked at the floor and traced his fingers along the lines scored into the wood.

“You should still be prepared for anything,” he said, he wondered if his voice sounded as flat to everyone else as it did to him. There was some kind of… dissonance in the air. Like the warm light and easy atmosphere were at odds with Peter’s tense muscles and clouded thoughts.

Brad asked, “Do you have names picked out?”

Betty sat up sharply, practically shaking with excitement as she leaned forward, “I’m going to name him Edward,” she said it as if this was obvious. Peter supposed maybe it was, that naming a child after it’s late parent was an easy thing, an expected thing. It was a good way to carry Ned’s memory, after all.

“You’re gonna be feeling pretty stressed when you have a daughter and no plan for a name,” Bennett laughed, “You could choose Eleonore, after Mom?”

Brad added, “I’ve heard May has been a popular name for girls in the past few months,” and Peter looked up at this, locked eyes with him. But Brad just gave a strained little smile and then occupied himself picking at his nails.

Betty mused, “Maybe the name could have to do with unity or peace, because of everything that happened this year.”

Unity or peace.

Peter found himself twisting the ring on his finger. Jarvis had said something about unity during the wedding ceremony; Peter had been too flustered and agitated to pay attention, but he remembered something about healing and how the wedding was a brave decision.

“So, Brad, rumour mill says you’re going back to court.” Bennett grinned across the room and Brad snorted, lifting a hand to rub his eyes.

“No,” he mumbled, “I’m _not_ , I hope I never go back to court again.” Brad sniffed and folded his arms across his chest,he didn’t look at any of them, “Peter helped me pay the guy off.”

“Well... you paid him reparations,” Peter said, “it wasn’t a — you followed a legal process, you didn’t _pay him off_.”

Brad gave a small shrug and his eyes flicked to Bennett. Betty asked, “Wait, what happened? Brad what did you do _now_?”

“I didn’t — ugh,” Brad ran a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering on the back of his neck, “I got into a fight with a boy in the kitchens who suggested I was having an affair with Peter — but that guy’s always talking shit!”

Bennett burst into laughter, though he seemed to know this story already, and a blush flooded Betty’s cheeks. Brad crossed his arms and huffed, “It’s not that funny — I think the asshole stole my father’s knife,”

“He said he didn’t,” Peter reminded him patiently, “And no one found it on him or with his things. You probably misplaced it.” Brad’s brow twitched. Peter knew what he was thinking; that he _wouldn’t_ misplace something like that. But without another suspect, they didn’t have a lot to go on.

But, Peter had to admit, there was something a tiny bit _satisfying_ about the fight. As much as he wished no one was spreading rumours in the first place, he was grateful Brad had made his stance on such gossip clear.

“The King wasn’t mad at you about all this?” Betty asked in a hushed gasp.

Brad hesitated but finally shook his head, “He hasn’t — I don’t even know if he knows. Peter helped me handle everything and —”

“And I haven’t seen King Anthony in over a week, just liaisons and paperwork.” Peter added, letting the conversation fall. He could sense the slightest hint of a question between them, knew that Betty and Bennett were wondering, if not an affair, what had happened? What had Peter done to Tony or what had Tony done to Peter?

Really, the question was what _more_ had they done?

How much further could they possibly tear each other down?

Peter cleared his throat and started to stand up, “It’s probably time we go home,” he mumbled, looking at Brad. They rearranged the pillows and Peter packed his things away sluggishly, not looking forward to going back to the castle and its stone walls and tense atmosphere.

Peter shook his head when Betty handed him the storybook.

“You should keep it,” he said, “It’s for children, you should keep it for the baby.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” Betty shoved the book more forcefully toward his chest, the action made a bit awkward when Peter still didn’t reach for it, “It belongs in the castle, Peter!”

“It’s —” Peter turned away from her, pulling his bag over his shoulder, “it’s about Arachne. No one else in the castle would even care about it, Betty. I want you to keep it.” And he walked toward the stairs, leaving no more room for discussion and filling the room with an uneasy silence.

“Well, it’ll be here.” Betty’s smile was cheerful but a bit watery as she put the book gently on the table and Brad joined her to help Bennett up from the floor, “We’ll see you tomorrow!”

Brad picked up one of their lanterns and they made their way down the steps and through the front of the bakery. Peter was puzzled by the sound of laughter as they reached the storefront, and then froze as soon as he stepped into the doorway.

He stopped so quickly that Brad ran into him and mumbled a curse under his breath.

From the bakery counter, Mrs. Brant and Beck looked over at them; they smiled and Mrs. Brant jumped to her feet.

“And here they are,” she smiled, “Prince Peter, the men you came with needed to leave but Sir Quentin will see you home. Let me get your coats for you,” Peter still didn’t move as she crossed the room, he just kept staring at Beck. He couldn’t say precisely why, but his skin was crawling and his scalp felt like it was burning, his tongue suddenly seemed too heavy in his mouth — just dead weight preventing him from speaking.

A nudge from Brad made Peter lurch the rest of the way into the room while Beck stood up, collecting his lantern from where he’d placed it on the counter.

“My Prince, I hope you don’t mind the adjustment with your escort,” he bowed at the waist with that ever-present smile that left Peter feeling so uneasy. Beck chuckled, “This is quite different from the last time we were all here, isn’t it?” His gaze flickered to Brad and Peter’s head throbbed once, right in the spot where Brad had hit him months ago.

“Are you alright?” Brad’s voice drew Peter’s gaze and he swallowed hard.

“I’m fine.” His voice cracked a bit and he grimaced, “I’m just tired.” He realised that he was sweating as he accepted his cloak from Mrs. Brant. He probably just had to clear the air with Beck. Just had to clarify what had happened in the library and put it behind them.

Set aside quarrels, per Selfall tradition.

Mrs. Brant glanced outside as they bundled into layers and scarves and gloves.

“You boys hurry home, it’s terribly cold out, we might even see our first snow tonight.”

Brad thanked her and started toward the door. Peter fiddled with the strap of his bag and followed. His “Thank you, goodnight,” got stuck in his throat. Then all three of them were outside, the icy air flooding Peter’s lungs, burning his throat and stinging on his cheeks. He crossed his arms and jerked at the sound of Beck’s voice, at how muted and quiet it was in the night air,

“You’re welcome to go home, Davis. I can see Prince Peter safely back to the castle.”

Peter glanced at Brad, who had opened his mouth but didn’t say anything — Peter thought maybe he was going to protest out of politeness and not because he really _wanted_ to accompany them. Peter caught Brad’s eye, watched his hand flutter toward the scar on his ribs, he thought briefly about the last time they’d stood out on this road. When they’d shouted and Brad hit him, everything too bright and too fast under a hot sun instead of this cold full moon.

“You should go home,” Peter agreed, “I’m just going straight to bed anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

As much as Peter didn’t like the thought of being alone with Beck right now, it was probably as good a chance as any for them to have this conversation, to move on from whatever misunderstandings had occurred.

Brad relaxed and bowed very slightly, “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Goodnight, Your Grace… Sir Quentin.” And Brad turned down the road in the opposite direction of the castle. He kept his lantern in his left hand and it pulled up a little short on every backswing, the slightest twinge from an old wound.

Peter turned back to Beck, craning his neck up to look into frosty blue eyes, bright and illuminated in the icy night. Beck’s smile was warm and kind and he took a step back, inclining his head toward the castle, “I’m sorry to send him off, Peter. I just think you and I may need to —”

“Clear the air,” Peter finished, watching how the words misted in the already pure, cold night around them.

“Yes,” Beck looked the slightest bit… relieved? That probably made sense, it was good for them to be on the same page before anything else was said.

Beck started to walk and Peter followed him, but neither of them spoke until they made their first turn at the end of the road. Peter kept his eyes trained on the cobblestones, watching for ice or slick footing, but the city streets were as solid and even as Beck was at his side. Peter wondered if there were already spirits walking beside them, or if he and Beck were completely alone.

Finally, Beck said, “Maybe it’s best to just clarify, Peter. How do you… feel? About what happened in the library?”

Gooseflesh slithered up Peter’s back and to the nape of his neck, but it had nothing to do with the cold.

Beck stopped. Peter did too, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up at the knight.

“I'm sorry, I don't really remember much… I… I hadn’t slept well the night before,” Peter tugged on the hem of his cloak, thought about asking if they could talk about this once they were back in the castle. They could find a sitting room or a corner in the great hall and discuss this in the warmth and light of a fire.

Peter continued after a moment, “We were drinking wine and I remember you kissed me but I… I pushed you away and went to bed. I’m sorry if I was rude when I left, I-I drank too much…” Peter trailed off. He still couldn’t figure that part out; why, if he was just enjoying time with a friend, would he have had more than two glasses? It shouldn’t have made him so sick or so disoriented or blurred his memories so much. And he’d had bruises… but Beck wouldn’t have hurt him — not on purpose...

Would he?

“My Prince,” Peter bit his lip and Beck chuckled, “Peter… I’m really sorry about what happened. I was irresponsible and we got carried away with that wine but…” A hand on his cheek made Peter flinch but Beck stilled, grasped his chin and lifted his head so Peter was looking up at him. “Peter, you _didn’t_ push me away. We drank and you kissed me, and when you got sick I took you to your quarters myself.”

“No,” Peter shook his head forcefully enough that Beck let go of him, but his lips curved up very slightly into a smirk. Like he was amused at Peter’s confusion, as if he was just being stubborn and childish in his refusal, “I left you in the library and then someone… someone in the courtyard…” Peter swallowed hard, he wished his thoughts would clear from the fuzzy shapes and thick black rain from that night.

“I caught up with you,” Beck whispered, “We kissed in the library, but then you started to feel ill and ran out. I found you throwing up outside and brought you to bed.”

“But I…” Peter hesitated. The shape of the person that night was different in his head, smaller. But Ben had always said alcohol could play games with the mind.

“You asked me to bring King Anthony,” Beck added, “Before you fell asleep. I brought you some water and you asked for the King.”

That _did_ sound familiar.

Peter’s hands were shaking, but he couldn’t say whether it was the cold or the discordant memories warring in his mind. He licked his lips and Beck gave another reassuring smile.

Peter said, “We… in the library…” But he trailed off, not knowing exactly what he wanted to say or ask.

“We _were_ drinking,” Beck flushed the slightest bit, “But you kissed me, Peter. I wish you hadn’t gotten sick, that we could have…”

A sour uncertainty flipped Peter’s stomach into knots and squeezed his chest harder and harder, he felt like it was trying to force him into the shape of something smaller, weaker.

More forgetful, apparently.

Peter’s voice was trembling, “Are you sure?”

“I swear on the King’s life.”

Peter stared up at Beck, at gentle blue eyes that looked so concerned and so... so _fond_. For just a moment his thoughts flickered to Tony, to the glimmer of light in dark eyes as they giggled in bed after late-night negotiations.

Beck said, “Peter, I understand that this is complicated and… and not entirely appropriate. But I love you. And I think you must feel for me too.”

He leaned down a bit, but Peter stepped back before their lips could meet. His legs were trembling and heat had crept up to his neck. The blush almost made it hard to breathe, like it was strangling him. “Beck, I’m — _Quentin_ , I’m sorry if I —” Peter stopped to swallow, eyes flickering to Beck’s hands, then his feet, to the bag at his side and up the street, anywhere but his eyes, “I don’t care about you the way you... want or-or think.”

“Yes you do, Peter. I know you do,” Beck crouched to put his lantern on the ground and then moved forward with both hands outstretched, a bit like he was approaching a wounded animal. A step forward matched each one Peter took back, and they both froze when Beck grabbed his face, grasping just tight enough to hold him still, enough to almost hurt.

Beck’s voice was earnest and gentle and _warm_ in the frigid night surrounding them, “Peter, he’s done nothing but exploit and use you, you’re letting yourself see him as something he’s not, but you’re fooling yourself. You’re _smarter_ than this.” Beck stopped, his thumb brushed against Peter’s cheek, right over the fading purple scar from where Tony had slapped him ten days ago.

“I should never have let him hit you,” Beck murmured, and vaguely Peter remembered the hot afternoon after the bakery, when he’d snarled an empty accusation about bastard children and Tony had thrown him against the wall. Beck dropped one hand, let it rest on Peter’s waist; Peter’s heart was beating so loud and so hard he was sure Beck could hear it, maybe could even see his pulse in his throat.

Beck moved his face closer, all Peter could see was the worry creasing his brow and filling his eyes. “Peter, do you remember what we talked about on your wedding night?”

He did. He remembered the dark green rain and Beck’s heat on a chilly night. He remembered lilies glowing in the torchlight, and feeling so sick that he couldn’t eat or sleep.

 _I don’t want something that_ looks _a certain way. I don’t want the_ appearance _of love or happiness, I don’t want a_ show _of anything. I want to love someone, and I want someone else to love me._

_You deserve that. You deserve to be married to someone who wants you, who recognises how good you are._

Peter opened his mouth but he didn’t know what he wanted to say, something about responsibility or promises… or Tony being better than he’d thought. But he lost his voice and couldn’t get anything out, afraid that if he did speak he would say the wrong thing.

So this time when Beck kissed him, Peter didn’t move.

He thought about Beck’s story, about his own muddled memories from the night in the library, and wondered if he’d really _wanted_ to kiss Beck then. Apparently he’d been enthusiastic before getting sick, but now even without alcohol Peter just wanted to throw up. There was a sharp, sour burn on Beck’s lips that made Peter’s stomach clench and the centre of his forehead throb. The taste, the smell, it wasn’t just familiar — it was _painful,_ his wrists ached even though they were free and pain lanced through the back of his head even though he hadn’t hit it. Fear spun into his throat and —

 _You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. I mean you fucking_ owe _me this!_

 _You’re full of shit, Peter. You expect me to believe that you didn’t get down on your knees for that_ act of God _? That you didn’t whore yourself out for those soldiers?_

The memories swarmed to the front of Peter’s brain and despite the cold air he felt himself break into a sweat. He remembered Beck’s tongue shoved into his mouth and hands all over him, ignoring hot tears and desperate sobs.

He remembered striking Beck, yanking himself away, stumbling into the black rain and the _girl_ who’d been there — Victoria, not Beck.

And the next day, Tony confronted Peter with the very poison recipe he had burned.

Peter shoved Beck away from him and tried to snarl, “Get off of me!” But when they broke away the words came out muffled and rushed.

“Get _away_ from me!” Peter stumbled to the right to put distance between them, but he didn’t know if he was shaking more from fear or from anger, “I didn’t kiss you that night, Beck, you _drugged_ me!” Right after Peter spoke, he spat on to the ground, desperate to remove the bitter flavour from his mouth, “I didn’t owe you anything then and I certainly don’t owe you anything now!”

Beck reeled toward him, lifting his arms the slightest bit, brow twitching and jaw tightening — like he was struggling to control his own muscles.

Or, more aptly, struggling to control _Peter_.

“Peter, you just need to trust me!” Beck’s voice was shredded between impatience and desperation, “I’m trying to show you that he isn’t worth caring about when you have _me_! _I_ can take care of you! We can rule Arachne together!”

“I stood at the altar! I said my vows, I —”

“Vows to a _dead man_ , Peter, you didn’t _love_ him!”

Peter was about to snap back, _right, because you think I love_ you _?_ But he came up short because —

 _Vows to a dead man_.

 _Y_ ou didn’t _love him_.

“What do you mean?” Peter’s voice pitched and he struggled to hold his ground, “Beck, what did you do?”

“What do you _think_ I did!” Beck hissed, each word landing low and sharp and precise, “He _deserved_ it Peter! You said yourself that he ruined your life, he killed your uncle, he took advantage of you! But it’s okay!” He dove forward, snatched up Peter’s hand again, squeezed it so tightly that a numb pain flashed up Peter’s whole arm, “Peter, this is a lot and it’s overwhelming and scary but this can be okay! We can give it some time. Let the King’s death blow over, you and I can get married, we can be together and you can have your country — we could be the wealthiest, most powerful nation in the _world_! You just have to trust me, just give me a chance!”

A second passed; a moment too cold and too silent given Beck’s warm grip and the fevered words of their argument.

Then Peter said, “No.”

He tried to tug his hand away, but Beck squeezed even tighter, until a bone in Peter’s wrist popped so he stopped struggling.

“I will never marry you.” Peter kept his voice soft, trying to placate even though he was almost certain Beck was going to kill him in a few more minutes, a few more words, “I _can’t_ marry you. You’re _hurting_ and _killing_ people to get what you want, what you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you deserve —”

“You say that like he wasn’t doing the exact same thing!” Beck’s voice overflowed with frustration, he tugged Peter even closer to him, glaring down at him like a viper that had cornered its prey.

That had been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“That was _different_ ,” Peter insisted, “That was about my country, this is about _you_. And you don’t know me at all if you think I’m going to be a part of- of...” He stopped, wondering how far Beck’s plots had gone. If he had attacked his _king_ to win Peter’s hand, after only knowing him a few months, what else was he capable of?

Finally, Peter cleared his throat and said, “No, Beck. I will not marry you. I can’t go along with this.”

Peter saw the twinge of something in Beck’s expression: surprise, or anger, or maybe even the barest pain of rejection. But then, as quickly as it was there, a storm cloud rolled over Beck’s features and his face twisted into a thunderous scowl.

His voice was low, sickly smooth and nearly as soft as Peter’s, as ice cold as the autumn air around them. “You _will_ marry me, Peter. You’re going to do every damn thing I tell you to — because I haven’t come this far and worked this hard to be stopped by an entitled. Little. _Brat_!” He spat the last of this and Peter flinched, the action made his whole body twitch; there was a glint of silver in the night air and when Peter stilled again there was a knife between them, the tip against his throat. “I’ve been planning this for _years,_ Peter, and no one is going to get in my way. You don’t want to play nice? Fine.”

Beck turned suddenly, yanking Peter with him and shoving him against the closest wall, a storefront closed hours before. Beck crowded against Peter, pinning him, “I used Davis’ knife to kill the King, I was going to frame him from the start. His life should have been forfeit for _ever_ hurting you, and I’m going to fix that. But I also used _your_ poison, and it would be real easy for me to throw you into the lion’s den with him. You’re smart, Peter. Remind me what that contract says: what happens if you’re implicated in the King’s murder?”

The marriage contract.

Arachne razed and burned, its citizens killed or sold. Peter felt tears swim into his eyes and he fought hard to blink them away. He lifted his arms to try and push Beck away but the knight was so much bigger and stronger than him.

“Get the picture, Peter?” Beck hissed, their foreheads almost touching; all Peter could see was the hard ice blue of Beck’s eyes, focused and devious and calculating. “I don’t care what it takes,” Beck continued, “I’ve been playing this game for too damn long. So you act out, you try to resist, you tell me _no_? I’ll kill your friends, right down to the baker’s brat and the little bastard you sired on her! I’ll ruin your country, and their blood will be on _your_ hands.”

A sly smile crept across Beck’s cheeks and he pulled himself back just a touch, just enough to let Peter heave for a cleaner breath of air.

“Do you understand, ‘ _My Prince’_?”

The tip of Beck’s knife twitched against Peter’s throat when he swallowed. His right hand squeezed tighter, fingers bruising and nails digging into Peter’s hip.

Peter whispered, “I understand.”

And then, with a shout and a thud and a grunt of pain, Beck’s weight was thrown off of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Physical and emotional coercion and manipulation, (attempted) gaslighting, references to drunkenness/vomiting, references to ghosts/paranormal activity, the conflict from Chapter 25 is not yet resolved at the end of this chapter.
> 
> Chapter Summary: Beck makes his way to the bakery after attacking Tony. He mentions to the reader that he has plans to frame Brad for Tony's death and then settles at the bakery to wait for Peter. Peter is upstairs with Brad, Betty, and Bennett celebrating Selfall Eve, an Arachnean holiday in which citizens might be able to visit with the spirits of the dead. Peter and Brad get ready to go home and Peter is surprised to find Beck waiting for him. He accepts Beck's escort and tells Brad he can go straight home for the night. In the street, Beck tries to convince Peter that his memories from the library are confused and that he willingly kissed Beck before getting sick. When Beck kisses him again, the taste of whiskey on his lips reminds Peter of what actually happened. Peter confronts Beck and Beck reveals that he hurt Tony. He tries to convince Peter that they're in love regardless, but Peter rejects him. Angered by this, Beck threatens to frame Peter alongside Brad if he doesn't go along with his plan, Peter agrees. But then there is a scuffle and Beck is pushed away.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter ☺️ I wonder what happened at the end there...😉❤️ As always, thank you to my betareader Silver Lurker who spent like 90 minutes rewriting two sentences with me over and over again 😅 I hope you guys have a great week!  
> Grace


	27. Muscle Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy and Rhodey reflect on the past ten years; Peter gives Beck what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Warnings include spoilers so check the end notes!

The great hall was nearly empty this time of night. Aside from a few servants and guards on late shifts, Happy and Rhodey sat undisturbed by the hearth.

After Tony had left, they’d traded rum in the office for beer from the kitchens, swapping old stories and wondering aloud if they should wait up to see Tony off to bed.

Happy smiled under the glow of old, stinging memories, “Remember when we started hanging out with Pep? What was it you said the night we snuck her out her window?”

“You mean up on Banner’s roof? When Tony first kissed her?” Rhodey chortled at the memory, clasping his beer in both hands and his lips twisting into a smirk, “I said, _you look like two seals fighting over a grape_.”

Happy snorted, “You didn’t even know what a seal looked like. The closest you ever got to the ocean back then was Raza’s sealskin cloak,”

“Look, all I’m saying is that if anything looked like two seals fighting over a grape, it was Tony attempting to kiss Pep for the first time.”

“I recall _her_ being the one to kiss _him_ ,”

“Well, he was probably talking too much.”

Happy scoffed and shook his head, training his eyes on the low light of the fire. They’d all been kids back then, barely sixteen and excited about the prospect of Tony being two years away from buying his freedom.

They’d spent those evenings pooling their money to afford cheap snacks and liquor. They drank their way through late nights talking smack about King Howard and watched bleak sunrises over a nation formed of dust and hunger pangs.

Rhodey twisted a little in his seat. His gaze settled outside, taking in the refraction of moonlight against frost crawling up the window. Happy knew what he was probably thinking about; how often it rained in Arachne, or else how _green_ the land was. Ferrum had been nothing but dirt and smog; the colours in Arachne, even as winter took hold and the Earth greyed, were spectacular.

“She would’ve liked it here,” Rhodey said, flicking a smile back at Happy, “Pepper, I mean.”

“Morgan too.” Happy sighed, “Can you imagine her playing in all the colours?”

His brow furrowed as he tried to remember whether Morgan had ever even _seen_ rain. In four years, there must have been at least some. But it would have been rare, and they all would have scrambled for buckets to collect... they’d sent small children inside so as not to get in the way.

In Ferrum, things were used. Not looked at.

Happy wondered what it would have been like to grow up in Arachne, to be surrounded by natural beauty and fruitful lands, to trust the steady hand of a good king.

His thoughts trailed to Tony pacing in the tower and Peter sequestering himself in his room. Ferrum had been as empty and desolate as Arachne was full and rich; maybe that was why loss had changed them so differently.

Grief had filled Tony up, it had crowded into spaces that had always been empty and then overflowed, lashing out at the world around him. Tony had fought to control anything and everything around him, pulling his friends along because they knew they would always look out for one another. Every battle had felt justified for a while, had made sense. But then, somewhere along the way, they stopped merely defending themselves. Innocent people started dying and lines started blurring; children were killed and limbs were lost. Maybe all that grief had fed Tony then, too.

And Peter… grief didn’t fill him; it turned him over. Emptied him out and left him hollow. Instead of taking for himself, he _gave_ : agreed to marry for his subject’s lives, helped save Rhodey simply because he _could_. Whether protecting a man who’d hurt him, or negotiating a thousand tiny details in a legal contract, Peter had bargained away his identity and poured out his pride until he had nothing left. He would probably give someone the air from his own lungs if he could, if they needed it.

Grief had left them both stunned in their own way, struggling to understand what only the other was familiar with.

Movement in the doorway made Happy turn, he blinked away the ghosts of old and new memories. He sat up when he recognised the men who’d been assigned to Peter for the day and lifted a hand to wave them over.

Guterman and Douglas were both experienced soldiers who had served in Ferrum’s military when Howard was still king. They made their way over and Happy asked, “How’s the city?”

Guterman saluted, “Nothing to report, Captain. The locals have all settled in for the night. There’s some kind of holiday going on, but they’re quiet about it.”

Happy felt a tension between his shoulders relax a little bit. Assaults, brawls, and other petty disputes had been numerous even after the wedding. But once Peter and Tony came to an agreement for Arachne’s rebels, after the armsmen swore new fealty or went into exile, the unrest had died out almost overnight.

“Good,” Happy sighed, “Good. Well, if the Prince is home safe, then you two are free to go. Have a good night,” He turned to address Rhodey but paused when Guterman and Douglas exchanged glances. “What?” He stopped, facing them again and pointing between them, “What was that? What was that look?”

Guterman hesitated. Douglas cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders back, “Nothing, Captain. The Prince asked Sir Quentin to escort him home, though. He was still at the bakery with the Brant family and Davis when Sir Quentin relieved us.”

“Quentin Beck doesn’t _relieve_ you,” Happy growled, practically jumping to his feet. Both soldiers shied back and Rhodey reached forward,

“Happy, come on. Beck and Peter are friends,”

“Yeah?” Happy turned toward him, hands balling into fists, “Well the last time this particular ‘friend’ escorted Peter to town, the kid got beaten to a bloody pulp.”

Rhodey didn’t even blink, he just stared evenly back up at him. “As I recall, that wasn’t only Beck’s fault.”

And, well, that was true; Tony had made his own mistakes that afternoon. Happy’s thoughts flashed back just a couple of hours, to their toast in the office and the broken, desperate remorse in Tony’s voice.

 _I messed up… I ruined Peter’s life_.

“Well, we’ve gotta make sure that doesn’t happen again.” Happy huffed. They _especially_ didn’t need any more rumours spreading about Peter’s habits or Tony’s reactions.

Happy glared back at the soldiers, who were fidgeting nervously as they watched him.

“You two… go to bed,” Happy growled and waved his hand off toward the door, “The next time I assign you to guard the Prince, you don’t leave unless there’s a written order from _me_ , got it?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Happy glared after them and then called, “And you’re on morning foot patrol the rest of the week!” To which he got another quick salute and shout of affirmation and then watched them retreat from the hall.

Rhodey was smiling when he turned back to him, “Man, you are overreacting.”

“I’m under-reacting, if anything.” Happy glanced back at the door, eyes flicking to the window and the frigid moonlight outside. “I should go down there, just bring everyone home.”

“Beck’s his friend,” Rhodey scoffed and sat back in his chair, “Sit down, Happy. Best case scenario, they’re home soon. Worst case scenario? The kid _is_ having an affair? At least it’s with someone he likes.”

But Happy didn’t sit down. He turned from the window back to the door, unnerved at the thought of Beck and his shifty smile anywhere near Peter.

* * *

Beck stumbled and then fell into the street. Freed from his position against the wall, Peter leapt away and staggered a few paces down the road before turning back, not knowing what he expected to see.

The only thing he could think of was that Tony was here. Someway, somehow, Tony was not dead at Beck’s hand. He was okay and he had made his way here and Beck was going to be arrested and the panic and horror of this night would be over.

But when Peter took in the scene before him, looked at Beck clambering back to his feet, looked at the cracked lantern he’d been hit over the head with, looked at the figure standing between them, he didn’t see Tony.

Brad glanced back at Peter for only a moment before fixing his gaze on Beck again. His hands were curled into fists and his feet were squared; his voice was steady, “Peter… Your Grace, you should get out of here.”

Beck was scrambling to pick up the blade he’d dropped. It was a double-edged dagger, the edge curved like an eagle’s talon, about half the length of Peter’s forearm.

“Davis,” Beck coughed as he straightened up, an unsettling grin spreading across his face, “You should’ve gone home like you were told.”

“Really? ‘Cause it looks to me like you were threatening the Prince Consort!” Brad hissed.

“My actions aren’t any of your concern!” Beck snapped, taking a few steps forward, “I’m not going to hurt _Peter_.”

Brad shifted slightly, pushing his weight to one foot, his arms coiled in preparation to strike. “I’m pretty familiar these days with what assault and treason look like,” he said, “Pinning him with a dagger against his throat qualifies. I’m sworn to Peter’s service, that includes defending him!”

“Then you’ll _die_ for him!”

Beck lunged forward and Peter took a few steps in their direction. He didn’t know exactly what to do — pull Brad out of the way or just try to get between them? But Brad sidestepped and Beck lurched almost straight into Peter.

Brad realised his error and awkwardly grabbed Beck’s arm to yank him back, making the dagger swing wide. Beck’s elbow smashed into Brad’s nose, and he yelped as he lost his balance and fell backward.

The dagger clattered onto the cobblestones. Beck used both hands to grab Peter’s collar and then they were both falling.

Beck landed on his back but pulled Peter straight downward, so the Prince’s forehead hit the cobblestones _hard_. Peter groaned, his vision swimming with stars. A sharp pain stabbed between his ears, radiating from one temple to the other. He tried to move his arms and felt his bag slip off his shoulder. He moved sluggishly to push himself up or clear his head, swallowing down a wave of bile and groaning when Beck’s voice echoed above him.

“Dammit,” The knight hissed as he regained his footing. Peter succeeded in rolling himself onto his back, blinking too many times to stop four different Beck’s from wavering above him. “See what you _did_ , Davis?”

Beck turned away from Peter to glare up the street. Brad’s voice was trembling despite his bravado, “ _I_ wasn’t the one holding him. _I’m_ not the one who slammed his head into the pavement. Do you make a habit of blaming other people for the pain you cause?”

Beck stepped forward. Peter’s vision was starting to clear and he craned his neck to get a better look at them; he opened his mouth but his tongue felt too heavy to form words.

Beckgrinned, “You think _you’re_ one to talk about causing the Prince pain? You’re the one who beat and insulted him — and after he sacrificed his freedom and dignity for you!” Beck’s lip curled in disgust, “And then he defended you! You weren’t even grateful for that — do you have any idea what Peter risked that day in court? The King beat him before, for the stunt you pulled. And I shudder to think what happened the night of your trial.”

Brad’s face was twitching, lips pursed and gaze flickering around the street. Peter opened his mouth, he wanted to correct the ugliness of Beck’s words: Tony had not beaten him because of Brad, but because Peter had indirectly insulted his daughter’s memory. And the night of the trial? Nothing had happened. They drank tea and went to bed.

Brad swallowed, “At least I’m trying to change,” he said, “At least I recognise the mistakes I made.”

“And a good thing!” Beck snarled, “I’d hate for your bitch to have seen how useless you are. Maybe it’s a mercy she got herself stuck on the end of my sword when the city fell!”

_Your... bitch?_

Peter kept blinking, trying to piece together who or what Beck was talking about. The city had fallen _months_ ago, so why was he bringing it up now?

Beck’s words must have made a lot more sense to Brad, because he snapped, “Shut your damn mouth! She died defending Peter!”

MJ… they were talking about MJ. Beck had killed her? That’s what he was saying? That he was the one responsible for the bloodstains on her armour that day, for her desperate flight through the city, for her breathless message.

Beck’s eyes were brighter than almost everything else above Peter, “She died with him after leading me through the whole damn city and up the wrong tower! She just didn’t know when to quit.”

His confirmation made a cold, sick feeling wash over Peter’s head and settle in his stomach. MJ wasn’t just dead because she’d fallen in service, because of bad luck in the final battle of a war. She was another victim of Beck’s wretched games.

And now Beck was going to kill the man she had loved.

Peter would be damned if he let that happen.

Brad threw himself forward, carelessly this time. Peter put his hands down on the ground and nearly pulled himself up, but then he fell again, head pounding and heart trying to lurch out of his own throat.

Above him, Brad gasped in pain and Peter twisted to look, fingers scrabbling on the cobblestones like maybe that would give the momentum he needed to push himself up. Beck had landed a punch squarely against Brad’s jaw and his head snapped to the side. But he barely looked up again before Beck stepped closer, fist slamming into the left side of Brad’s ribs, right across the scar where he’d been ripped open during the war.

Beck hit him twice in quick succession and Brad doubled over, barely stopping the faint whimper that fell from his lips. Brad crumpled to the ground, gasping hoarsely for breath; he rolled when Beck kicked him, this time Peter heard the crack of bone giving way.

Beck stood still for a moment, fists clenched and chest heaving, watching Brad as he tried to put his feet under him. Brad made it to one knee, raised a trembling hand to his jaw, and then swayed and fell down. Apparently satisfied, Beck straightened his shirt and turned to the road to pick up his dagger.

“Beck…” Peter swallowed the heavy, gummy feeling in his throat, his voice barely more than a croak. He watched Beck straighten with the blade in hand and turn, gaze focused and unyielding on Brad.

“Beck…!” Peter coughed, he was sure that Beck would have heard, if not his name, _something_ this time, but the knight still didn’t look at him. Peter’s right hand wrapped around something, it was cold and the dry surface softened and cracked in his palm. Brad groaned from the ground and started to look up, Beck dragged him up by the collar, lifting his dagger.

Peter flung his arm upward and hurled whatever was in his hand straight at them, finally finding his voice again as he shouted, “BECK!”

Beck flinched when whatever Peter had thrown hit him in the back of the head and he dropped Brad with a thud, whirling around.

Beck scanned the ground, looked at Peter, and snarled, “Did you just throw _horseshit_ at me?”

Peter would have laughed if he wasn’t so scared, if he wasn’t on the verge of throwing up. From the ground, clutching his ribs, Brad mumbled, “You deserve that.”

Before Beck could turn his murderous sights on Brad again, Peter gasped, “Beck! _Quentin!_ Stop!” He blinked rapidly as he sat up. The street whirled around him and he choked on his next breath, “Let him go!” Peter coughed, “I’ll do — whatever you — I’ll…” He stopped, head swimming, gasping for air. Vaguely, he remembered a different argument. Warmer, shut up inside the castle, sobbing on his knees and desperate for Tony to listen to him.

_Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it._

But that was the issue, wasn’t it? With Beck’s leverage, with Tony likely dead, Peter didn’t have anything to offer. What could he give to someone determined to take what he wanted by force? Peter had nothing to throw himself on except for Beck’s mercy.

Or his vanity.

Beck exhaled through his nose and shook his head, turning to Brad again, “He’s in the way, Peter.”

Brad thrashed when Beck started to drag him up by the back of his shirt collar. Beck’s arm whipped down and he struck Brad on the head with the hilt of the dagger. Brad sagged, and Beck mumbled something under his breath. He moved his grip to Brad’s hair, pulling back to expose his throat. Peter finally lurched onto his feet and stumbled toward them.

“You need him alive!” Peter shouted, heart leaping into his throat when Beck froze. Peter stumbled to his hands and knees not far from them, mind whirling and stars flitting across his eyes. He choked on his breath, on the desperation squeezing his chest as he dragged himself forward, “Beck, you said it yourself, you need him alive!”

Peter risked a glance at Brad, who was blinking to reorient himself. Beck’s grip had loosened and his gaze was transfixed on Peter, who was wiping tears from his eyes.

“Beck,” Peter sniffed, smothering his own pride as his sobs bled out into the street, “You said you were going to blame him for the King’s death, you can’t kill him now!” Peter finally reached them, burning under a hungry gaze as he grasped Beck’s leg and buried tear-stained cheeks against his thigh. “Please don’t kill him, please don’t kill him.”

He didn’t know what good it would do. If Beck got his way, then Brad was still going to die for killing Tony. But this might buy them a couple of days, at least. It would give Peter more time to think. Just like agreeing to marry Tony when the city fell, at least this gave him a bit more control.

Peter heard Brad drop when Beck let go of him. He struggled not to flinch when Beck’s fingers coiled in his hair, brushing across his scalp.

“Oh, Peter, sweetheart,” Beck was practically purring at the display before him. It made Peter want to gag, but if this was what needed to happen for his country, for Brad’s life, then so be it. He’d played a part like this before and he could do it again.

“Don’t kill him,” Peter mewled, trying to sound as weak and small as possible. His heartbeat eased at the thought that _maybe_ Beck would listen to him. Maybe he would have another chance to prove himself, maybe he could save Brad.

Maybe he wouldn’t lose someone else.

“Peter,” Beck tugged on his hair and Peter pulled his face back, looking up into eyes that were a bit grey in the moonlight, as weightless and obscured as mist.

Beck’s hand cupped his cheek, thumbing away the tears, “He has to die now, Peter. He’s seen too much tonight.” Beck’s voice was tender, and if Peter didn’t know better he would say the knight was genuinely sorry.

But Peter did know better. And now, weak and debased on his knees, he had no cards left to play.

It was impossible to bargain in a game with someone determined to cheat.

Peter’s memories trailed back to voices and laughter from a happier time, grumbling when his friend pinned him down:

_Come on, that wasn’t fair!_

_Well your enemies aren’t gonna make it fair, what do you do now_?

With MJ’s grinning voice in his ear, Peter steeled his nerves. He was positioned rather awkwardly, pressed so close to Beck’s leg. But he grabbed Beck’s ankle with both arms and then threw his weight backward, trying to yank his foot out from under him. Beck swore and stumbled for a moment, but then bent down and grabbed the back of Peter’s cloak, hauling him halfway to his feet.

Peter writhed in Beck’s grip and tried to punch him, but Beck used one hand to grab Peter’s arm and then twist it painfully behind his back, until he cried out.

“Oh, Peter.” Beck’s breath was hot on his neck. With a thud, he knocked Peter facedown onto the ground and pressed their bodies flush together.

Tears were brimming on the edge of Peter’s eyes but he didn’t know if they were from pain or from relief — after all, if Beck was focused on holding him down then he couldn’t hurt Brad.

Beck buried his free hand in Peter’s hair and shoved his face down. “I can’t say I’m surprised by the crocodile tears, but I’ll get you to drop that act soon. Make every one of those desperate cries real.” Peter jerked when Beck’s grip tightened, cold fear flooding his stomach as he started to think that — intentionally or not — Beck was about to break his arm.

The nails of Beck’s other hand dug into Peter’s head and ripped at the roots of his hair. His voice was a dark hiss in Peter’s ear, “You know, it really hurt my feelings when you punched me in the library. I’m shocked you would try it again. _Betrayed_ , really. But we —”

A shout up the road cut Beck off, and Peter felt the knight’s weight shift a bit on his back. Beck was quiet for a moment, his grip loosened slightly on Peter’s head.

When Beck spoke again, his tone was light and a little bit desperate, “Captain Hogan, I’m glad you’re here!”

Happy was here? Peter grunted and tried to wiggle on the ground but Beck leaned on his arm until the bone strained and tears filled Peter’s eyes again. Peter went still and Beck called, “Captain, the Prince and his servant have been plotting horrible things against the King. I’m afraid that —”

Happy snapped, “Oh, shut up!”

“But Captain I —”

“Cut the bullshit, Beck! Tell it to someone who gets paid to hear it.”

Beck fell silent. Peter bit down hard on the twinge of a smile on his lips; that sounded like something May would say.

Peter held still, he could almost see the thoughts racing through Beck’s head, turning and spiralling and stumbling over themselves to look for another tale to spin, another yarn to weave, another lie with which to cloud their minds.

But Beck didn’t say anything, and instead Peter felt the prick of the dagger on the small of his back. His heart began to race, hammering down onto the frozen pavement, each beat so loud he was surprised it didn’t make his whole body jump with it. Beck spat, “Take one more step, Captain, and you’ll be responsible for cleaning the Prince’s entrails off the street!”

Beck exhaled hard through his nose, like he was _frustrated_ at this turn of events. Like this was all too _inconvenient_ for him. Peter felt the dagger nudge harder into his back and tried to stay still, lest Beck cut him accidentally.

“There’s nowhere to go from here!” Happy’s voice carried down the street, soft in the night air, and Peter imagined him standing by Brad or maybe even further back, hands outstretched in a peace offering, “Let him go, Beck! Put your weapon down. We’ll go back to the castle, you can make your case from there.”

Beck laughed, the sound shrill and desperate and _insane_ , “Put it down?” He gasped, and it almost sounded like his voice was breaking, tears of anger and bitterness marring his words, “I’m not giving up now, I’m not going to let you all turn around and make _me_ the villain here! I —”

Beck’s weight didn’t just lift off of Peter when he got cut off, he sailed. Beck shouted in pain, the sound drowned out by an inhuman _roar_.

Peter lifted his head up and his arm uncoiled from its stiff position. He gasped in a clean breath of air and scrambled to his feet. As soon as he was standing, Peter turned to figure out what had happened, to see how Happy had reached them so quickly. But Happy was still standing up the road; the person dragging Beck was —

Bruce.

Bruce fisted one hand in Beck’s shirt, eyes wild and hair sticking out. He was unshaven, his clothes muddy and dishevelled, but the rage in his eyes was focused as Beck struggled to get a clean stroke in with his blade.

Bruce grabbed Beck’s wrist with his free hand. The clean snap of bone, Beck’s harsh shout of pain, and the clatter of the dagger on the ground all echoed neatly in the night air.

Peter’s head whipped around as Happy sprinted by him shouting, “Bruce!”

Bruce hadn’t stopped. He didn’t pause to secure Beck’s wrists behind his back or throw him to the ground. His eyes were bugged out, twitching, and his face was flushed. He punched Beck in the face with another inhuman growl, like a mountain lion. Beck’s nose crumpled and the force of the blow sent him out of Bruce’s grip. He rolled twice when he hit the ground, landing in a heap. Beck put both hands on the ground to push himself up, swearing and muttering at the strain on his broken wrist.

Blood was pooling over Beck’s lips and into his beard as he scrambled to his feet. His whole body trembled, the fear in his eyes sharp and clear when he looked at Bruce.

Beck was _scared_.

Beck looked at Peter once — for the briefest second, just a glaring challenge — and then he was turning around. He wiped at his nose, blood splattering on the cobblestones as clouds scuttled across the moon. And then Beck was finally — _finally_ — running away.

Bruce howled and started after him, but Happy dove forward, throwing his arm out and yanking Bruce back by his left shoulder.

“Whoa there big guy! Bruce, look at me!” Happy threw himself in front of Bruce, grabbing both of his arms and stopping him in his tracks. Peter scrambled to pick his bag up from the cobblestones and ran toward them.

Bruce’s head was thrashing from side to side again as a deep growl resonated from his chest; he heaved for each breath, fervour running through his veins. Happy still had one hand on his shoulder, but when he tried to speak Bruce reeled to the side with his arms swinging. Happy barely ducked out of the way, shouting “Banner! Come on, man!” But Bruce just squared his feet and swung again.

“Bruce!” Peter jumped in between them, wincing when Bruce’s fist swung right over his head. Peter ignored the urgent, strained protests from Brad and Happy behind him. He held his bag up like a shield when Bruce struck out at him again, smacking it out of Peter’s hands.

Peter held his arms up and Bruce grabbed him by both shoulders, flinging him against the wall.

“Bruce!” Peter tried to push him off, stared into the wild black pools of his eyes, and felt his stomach climb into his throat. Bruce’s arm coiled back, Peter turned away, Happy shouted again —

And then nothing happened.

Heart racing, Peter unscrewed his eyes and peeked up. Bruce’s chest was still heaving for breath, but his chin was turned upward and his eyes were fixed on the sky. Peter took in a couple quick, short breaths and followed his gaze up to witness the first snow of the year.

Bruce let go of Peter’s shoulders and held one hand up. He blinked over and over again as his breaths became more even. Bruce stepped back, his senses returning to him as the flush left his face and his eyes calmed, as earnest and rock-solid again as the man behind them.

Bruce turned his hands over, caught a few snowflakes on the pads of his fingers, and then looked back at Peter.

He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally spluttering, “The snow here is _white_?”

Peter’s brow furrowed as he caught his breath and he glanced warily toward Happy and Brad.

Finally he asked, “What other colour would snow be?”

Bruce’s gaze settled on Peter and his hands lowered to his side. When he exhaled this time, there was something complete about it. The tension eased out of his shoulders and a smile lifted onto his cheeks.

“Hi Peter,”

Relief travelled from Peter’s scalp to his toes and a wave of exhaustion slammed into him.

“Hi Bruce,”

“I missed you.”

Peter’s voice broke a little bit, “We missed you too.” He gasped on the relief in the air, the realisation that Beck was gone and that they were safe.

Except for —

Except for Tony, who was hurt somewhere in the castle — if not dying — if not _already_ dead. 

“We need to find Tony, Beck said he killed him!” Peter rounded back in the direction of the castle, energy flooding every vein in his body again.

“I’ll look after Davis!” Happy promised, “You two need to get up there, you’re the doctors! Peter, last I saw him he was heading for the office in the southern tower.”

Peter hesitated for a moment, looking warily at Brad and then over at Bruce.

“I’m okay,” Bruce said, voice returned to its normal soft timbre.

Happy bent down next to Davis and then looked back at them, making a vague gesture toward the castle, “Go, go!”

Peter nodded and scooped his bag up from the cobblestones, taking off up the road with Bruce at his side. The snow was coming down faster now, in thick flakes clinging to their skin and clothes.

“What the hell happens when it sleets?” Bruce shouted above the wind in their ears. But Peter didn’t answer, partly because of the exertion of running but mostly because he didn’t understand the question.

The night air was so cold it made Peter’s chest hurt with each sharp, clear inhale. Some small part of himself thought that maybe Beck was still out there, lurking the streets. Maybe he had doubled back and would now jump out at them again, but Peter and Bruce made it to the castle gates; Peter sprinted past the guards and vaguely heard Bruce slowing behind him, giving orders to go help Captain Hogan in the city.

Peter pushed his aching lungs and trembling legs even faster into the castle grounds.

 _He’s in the office in the southern tower_.

The southern tower was closest to the city walls, and he blinked past the dark shadows that obscured the halls inside. He heard Bruce just behind him and Peter called, “Find a light!” Then he rushed to the nearest staircase.

Each step Peter took made his head pound, pulsing from the centre of his forehead and sending a stabbing pain down to his toes. But he kept climbing, breath growing laboured as he went higher. He burst onto the top floor, and turned into the dark office, and —

Peter blinked as he stepped further into the room, desperately trying to catch his breath as he took in the tidy space. There was a lantern on the desk in the centre of the room, and several bookshelves and cabinets stood against the wall. Peter’s eyes traveled to the window, and the silver thread of moonlight breaking through the snow made him think of the lightning the day that MJ died.

The day that Arachne fell.

The day that he met —

“Peter?”

Peter stepped further into the room to let Bruce enter behind him. Bruce held a torch in one hand and lifted it high, casting the office in a warm glow. Immediately, Peter’s eyes fell on the prone figure lying on the floor. He shot forward, shouting behind him, “There’s more candles somewhere in the cabinet!” And then he fell to his knees next to Tony, still fighting to quell his heartbeat from the run here.

The King was lying on his side, eyes closed and utterly still. Peter rolled him gently onto his back. There a knife protruding from Tony’s chest, an ivory-pink stone set in the hilt, Peter watched it bob under the slight rise and fall of the King’s breath.

“He’s still alive!” Peter gasped, bending low to listen to Tony’s rattling breath. This realisation, this _relief_ , seemed to clear the air around them, made it easier to think as Peter pulled the bag off of his shoulder and began to dig through it.

The room started to fill with light as Bruce lit several candles and the abandoned lantern on the desk. Peter unpacked the supplies and medications he normally took to Betty. Since the war had started, he’d always kept a surgical kit and first aid supplies in his bag; now he uncapped a bottle of rubbing alcohol to clean his hands and searched for a needle and thread. His gaze swept across Tony, examining the King’s ruined pant leg, soaked through with blood. There was a white handkerchief wrapped around his palm too, tied off and stiff.

Bruce knelt on the King’s other side, mumbling, “Oh my God, Tony, oh my _God_.” He started to look more closely at Tony’s leg while Peter reached for the King’s hand and untied the handkerchief to see what the damage was. He stared at the shallow cut in Tony’s palm, thumbing over the line, wincing when he felt where a splinter was still lodged under his skin.

Bruce sniffed, his nose wrinkling as he peered down at Tony, “What’s that smell? It smells like…something _rotting?_ ”

 _I used Davis’ knife to kill the King, but I also used_ your _poison._

“It’s hemlock,” Peter whispered, dropping the handkerchief at his side. The knife had missed Tony’s heart. Which meant Beck had meant for him to suffocate. If the splinter and the handkerchief and the knife had all been poisoned, if the hemlock had already run its course to Tony’s muscles, then soon he might —

Tony stopped breathing.

Peter _heard_ it more than saw it. The King’s chest stopped moving and that cold, choked tremor suddenly cut off, leaving the room too silent. Bruce froze where he’d been about to cut off Tony’s pant leg, and his eyes met Peter’s.

Bruce whispered, “We’re too late.”

Peter stared back at him. His hands were clamped too tightly around Tony’s arm, they’d clenched when the King stopped breathing. Slowly, dreading what he might find out, Peter loosened his grip and pressed two fingertips to Tony’s wrist.

Tony’s heart was beating.

Peter opened his mouth, trying to agree with Bruce. He tried to force the words out, tried to say _yeah, we’re too late_.

Heat was crawling up his spine though; Peter’s eyes flickered to the window and the snow. MJ’s laugh pierced into the centre of his brain so loudly that Peter nearly jumped.

_Careful! If you start to drown, Peter will have to kiss you to make it better!_

And then, despite the frigid night outside, he could hear his own laughter on a rocky beach under a blistering sunset.

_It’s not kissing! It can save lives. It’s just breathing for someone else._

Peter stared at Bruce again.

_We’re too late._

They could be too late. They probably _were_ too late. Tony had a knife in his chest and poison in his blood and nothing but war and darkness and bloodshed behind him. This was Beck’s fault. So Peter could just agree. He could nod along.

Tony had stopped breathing, they were too late. Arachne would be his again and this whole nightmare, this ugly horrific marriage to a murderer, would be over. Peter could be king, and he could lead his country, and he would have Brad and Betty and his home and it would be —

Enough. It would be enough.

There would be no dreadful reminder of the war and all that they had lost. Peter would be _safe_ , the contract would be _gone_ , Arachne would be whole again.

Tony was the villain, wasn’t he? Wasn’t the villain supposed to lose?

 _He_ deserved _it Peter! You said yourself that he ruined your life, he killed your uncle, he took advantage of you!_

But…

If Peter let Tony die, knowing that he could have helped? Did that make him any better than Beck, manipulating the world around him to get his way?

“Bruce,” Peter choked on his own breath. Each word felt like it was clawing its way out of him, smarting and thrashing and insisting that he change his mind — change his mind — change his mind —

“Go get a doctor,” Peter said, “We need more hands.”

“Peter, he isn’t —”

“I might be able to save him,” Peter confessed, moving so he was kneeling next to Tony’s chest again, “I don’t know for sure, but I _might_ be able to save him. We need more help and more supplies — please, Bruce, go! I’ll look after him!”

Bruce didn’t move though. He kept looking at Peter.

And then he asked:

“Do you _want_ to save him?”

“What matters is whether or not I _can_!” Peter spat before he could think on the answer, before he could let himself register the opening Bruce had given him. “Go get someone, Bruce!”

Bruce nodded and hurried to his feet, “I’ll be right back!” He called and then he hurried out the door and Peter heard him retreating down the steps.

Peter turned his attention to Tony again. He bent over, pinching Tony’s nose shut with one hand and holding his chin up with the other.

Peter hadn’t practiced the kiss of life in a long time — and never in a situation like this. But when arguing with Beck, he’d remembered pleading with Tony on his knees. And when defending Brad, he’d remembered MJ’s fighting instructions. And when rushing here to the office, he’d remembered the path to the tower even in the dark of night. Now, Peter’s muscles remembered effortlessly how to save a life.

He sealed his mouth to Tony’s and exhaled, watching out of the corner of his eye as the King’s chest rose. The movement made the knife waver and more blood seeped out across Tony’s chest. So Peter pulled back for a moment and settled his hand around the blade. He pinched down to stanch the flow until they were ready to pull the knife out and stitch the wound closed. Then he leaned over again.

Peter took in a deep breath and pressed his lips to his husband’s… and _breathed_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Physical fighting, shouting, crying, descriptions of wounds and some discussion about surgery/medical procedures. Brief description of an uncontrolled berserk/battlefield rage.
> 
> Chapter Summary: Happy and Rhodey spend some time in the castle swapping stories about their childhood in Ferrum. Peter's guards, who were sent away by Beck, return and report that Beck is with Peter. This agitates Happy, who considers going out to collect them. Meanwhile, Brad is revealed to be the one who knocked Beck off of Peter. Brad and Beck fight, Brad's rib is broken, and Peter begs Beck on his knees not to kill Brad. When Beck still plans to kill Brad, Peter tries to fight Beck but ends up pinned to the ground. Happy arrives on the scene and Beck threatens to kill Peter if anyone tries anything. Beck is thrown abruptly off of Peter by Bruce, who has just returned to the city. In a berserk rage, Bruce breaks Beck's wrist and nose and Beck runs away. Peter and Happy calm Bruce down; Happy stays with Brad while Peter and Bruce go to the tower to find Tony. In the tower, Tony stops breathing. Bruce declares that they're too late to save him, but Peter says he knows a medical technique that might help. Bruce goes to get more help while Peter begins artificial respiration (CPR rescue breaths) on Tony.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading everyone ☺️ Sorry this is a tad late! Everything was all ready to post this morning and then I went and changed my mind about events right in the middle of the damn chapter, so my beta — Silver Lurker — had to put up with that 😅 As always, a big thank you to her for her help. And a big thanks to you all for reading! ❤️ Have a good one!  
> Grace


	28. Silver Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Tony face their hardest tests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Warnings include spoilers so check the end notes!

_“Tony, are you okay? You seem distracted.”_

_Pepper wasn’t very far away; she was only standing across the room from him, but her voice still sounded distant. Or muffled._

_Tony blinked slowly, orienting himself in this cramped, dusty space. He was crouching next to their hearth at home, trying to ease the fire back to life. But the embers were determined to settle cold and grey, nothing but empty ash to choke the air._

_He looked down at his hands, which were covered in black soot. He moved to dust them off but winced when his fingers brushed over his palm, a dull ache climbing up his arm. The skin turned pink and then red, almost like it was going to break._

_“Daddy!”_

_Tony grunted when something slammed into him from the side and he turned, frantically throwing his arms around her. The pain in his hand forgotten, he hurried to settle her in his lap, to bury his face in her shoulder and be reassured that she was here and she was_ real _._

_“Morgan,” Her name splintered on his tongue and he stood up, hands underneath her legs to hold her against his chest. But she felt too light. And when he moved, he was standing up too quickly. He was moving too fast and the edges of his vision felt —_

_Wrong. Something was wrong._

_“Tony,” He lifted his gaze as Pepper stepped toward them; she slung her arms over his neck, making Morgan giggle and squirm as she was sandwiched between her parents. Tony reluctantly loosened his grip and she slipped down to their legs, clinging to their knees._

_“Pep…” Tony stared at her, the blue in her eyes as deep and enduring as the depths of the ocean. But —_

_But he had never been to the ocean. Had he?_

_And Pepper had never been_ with _Morgan. Not like this_

_Pepper lifted one hand to cup his cheek, eyes searching his, her face etched with concern. Tony let his hands slip low, hanging onto her waist as if to ground himself. Part of him wanted to reach up, to rub at his chest, but —_

_Why would that be?_

_“Talk to me, Tony. What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”_

_Tony swallowed a couple times, trying to get used to just seeing her, to having Morgan there. Why did this hurt so much? It felt like there was something lodged in him, like he couldn’t breathe._

_“What if we…” he hesitated, finally mustering his voice, “The three of us, what if we… went somewhere, together?”_

_“Oh yeah?” Pepper bit her bottom lip, “And umm… And where do you see us going?”_

_“We could… We could go to… Arachne.” He stopped, the brief clarity of his thoughts falling apart again. What would ever bring a distant, little country like that to mind? And anyway, why did he think they should leave? Or that they even could?_

_He had Pepper and he had Morgan, they were both_ here _and_ healthy… _But there was something…_

_He was forgetting something._

_Morgan tugged on their legs, craning her neck up to look at them, “Can we go play outside?”_

_Pepper’s brow was still creased as she looked at Tony, but then she pulled away and crouched to the floor, “Of course we can, baby,” She scooped Morgan into her arms and started toward the door._

_“Pepper, wait!”_

_Pepper spun around, her expression contorting somewhere between amusement and irritation, “Tony, come on, let’s go out. You’ll feel better in the fresh air.”_

_But that_ wasn’t _fresh air. Nowhere close._

_Not that… Not that he had ever experienced anything different._

_“You don’t — you can’t leave right now,” he whispered, voice pained, “What if something —”_

_“Nothing’s going to happen, Tony.”_

_As if agreeing with her mother, Morgan grinned and stuck her tongue out at him. Like maybe they’d had this argument before. Which was_ impossible _— wasn’t it?_

 _“Stay here,” he murmured and raced toward them, grabbing onto Pepper’s arm and all but pulling Morgan into his own grip, “Stay with me. Don’t go out there, Pep. I know it’s confusing but I’m — I can’t_ be here, _I can’t_ do this _without you!”_

_When Pepper turned, the door behind her was open, even though Tony was pretty sure it hadn’t been before. But the light was brilliant and it made his heart ache to see her like that — illuminated in gold, smiling, tilting her head to the world outside, an invitation he couldn’t accept._

_“You’re allowed to live without us Tony… You need to.”_

_Pepper turned away. She cooed to Morgan and pulled their daughter close, and then stepped out the door._

_Not caring about how sluggish and cloudy his mind was, how heavy his limbs felt, Tony staggered after her. He gasped under the brightness that filled him, that seemed to pierce into his lungs and give him some sense of strength._

_When his gaze settled, Pepper and Morgan were gone, and he wasn’t looking out on Ferrum’s clogged air and filthy streets. Instead, he took in a breath of pure air and gasped at rolling green plains and jagged mountains shifting under a warm breeze._

_There was a figure standing ahead of him, at the bottom of a hill. He was facing away from Tony with his hands clasped behind his back, as if considering the value of the climb ahead of him._

_Tony screwed his eyes shut against the light as gooseflesh slid up his arms and a hundred memories swam to the surface of his mind. Pepper and Morgan slipped into their roles of loss and pain; he remembered his father and his brand and his crown; he knew why Arachne had been on his mind, and his heart gave a short bursting double-thump because he remembered —_

_Peter._

_The man turned around, the corners of his eyes crinkling kindly and his lips twitching into a smile. Even without the blood and sweat and heat, even having only met the man once, Tony found his name easily._

_Benjamin Parker._

* * *

“Move him onto the desk… Hold on… Now!”

Peter winced when he lifted Tony, arms trembling and chest heaving. But Bruce and the doctor he’d brought — a man with wide eyes and wider glasses who introduced himself as William Riva — lifted as well and they quickly hoisted Tony onto the desk.

Peter rushed to orient himself again, tilting Tony’s chin up and gasping, “Watch me do this, someone will have to take over!” Then he delivered two more breaths, blinking furiously as his vision tilted and blurred.

“Peter, catch your breath,” Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, but Peter shrugged him off and bent to retrieve his bag from the floor.

Peter pulled a small wooden box out of the bottom of his bag. He opened the clasp and used one hand to select a needle while passing the rubbing alcohol to Bruce.

While they cleaned their hands, Riva gestured vaguely at Tony, “Was that the kiss of life? I’ve read about it; it’s for drowning victims.”

“Usually,” Peter answered, unspooling a length of thread, “But it provides air to a victim who’s not breathing —”

“Ah, yes. Banner mentioned this was hemlock poisoning?”

“Yes,” Peter said, “He stopped breathing just after we arrived. If the poison is what I think it is, it also may have contained opium.”

Peter paused to breathe for Tony again, this time each deep breath sent a stabbing pain right through the centre of his forehead.

“Opium and hemlock… Oh…” Riva’s moustache twitched and he fiddled with the glasses on his face, looking furtively between Peter and Tony. Peter bent over next to the lantern, trying to see the eye of his needle more clearly.

“I’m going to take the knife out and sew the wound in his chest,” he said, “Bruce, I need you to breathe for him; Riva, can you stitch his thigh?”

Riva hastily opened his medical bag, head bobbing along to Peter’s instructions.

Peter pulled his cloak off and draped it over the chair. Bruce started resuscitating Tony with Peter carefully watching his form.

Riva trilled nervously, drawing Peter’s attention as he rolled his sleeves up, “Ah, no catgut.” He sighed, “I’ll have to use linen thread,” he smiled over at them, “not any professional’s first preference, of course, but —”

“Use this,” Peter instructed shortly, passing the box with his own needles and thread to Riva, “It’s better than linen,” Peter put his bag down on the edge of the table, “And there’re clean cloths and alcohol in there.”

While Riva fumbled at the other end of the desk, Peter cut away Tony’s bloody shirt. Bruce braced his arms on Tony’s shoulders and Peter pulled the knife out.

Peter put the knife down on the table and tugged the lantern a bit closer. He leaned over Tony, hands steady and mind clearing as he moved to stitch the wound shut.

From the other end of the table, the doctor’s voice cut through the pounding of Peter’s own heartbeat, “Prince Peter, what _are_ these needles? They’re quite magnificent! Easy to handle, sturdy, but sharp and thin enough not to bruise. And the suture thread is superb! So fine but still strong. Scarring should be minimal, and —”

“William!” Bruce snapped from Peter’s other side and the doctor fell silent.

“It’s fine,” Peter huffed, because his eyes were blurring at the stench of blood permeating the air. If not for the howl of frigid wind outside, this night would feel too familiar. The painful screams of war and pleas for loved ones were starting to surface from the dregs of his memories.

“The needles are lightning-silver,” Peter answered, grateful for the steadying nature of conversation, “And the thread is washed and spun spider silk.”

Riva stopped working entirely and looked up at them, his chin dropped a little bit to gape at Peter.

But it was Bruce who asked, “Where did you ever find _lightning-silver_?” Peter’s head swivelled around to look at him.

“They — they were my aunt’s,” he said softly, then fixed his attention on Tony again. When he looked at the wound again, his mind cleared a little bit and the shaking in his hands stilled. He wiped the hair from his eyes with the back of his hand, and then carefully continued to stitch Tony back together.

After a few minutes, Riva remarked, “Bleeding’s remarkably light.”

“Hemlock slows the heart rate,” Peter answered easily, “Bleeding isn’t _light_ , just slow.”

“So the poison is saving his life?” Riva asked.

“The _kiss_ is saving his life,” Peter said, casting a quick glance at Bruce’s flushed face. But he just waved vaguely at Peter’s concern and nodded toward Tony’s chest. Peter turned again to the needle and partially-stitched wound.

Riva shrugged as he adjusted his glasses and stepped around the table a bit, “Yes, but the poison slowed the heart rate. As a sedative, knocking someone out, it would make any operation much simpler to perform...”

Peter screwed his face up at that, pausing for a moment to wipe a stray line of blood oozing from Tony’s chest, “Maybe, but hemlock wouldn’t be the sedative to use. It’s too dangerous. The kiss of life is a last-ditch effort — and for all we know, it’s not enough clean air. The King’s brain or motion could still be affected.”

“Well, opium wouldn’t work as well by itself. And it’s not affordable these days.”

Their conversation continued like that: they talked a bit more about sedatives, and then long-term observations of hemlock poisoning — records of which were sparse — and wound drainage and risks of internal bleeding. It settled the anxious hum in Peter’s mind, made it easy for his hands to work.

Once Tony’s chest and leg were stitched closed and open bleeding had been cut off, Peter wrapped the wounds in clean bandages. Then he monitored Tony’s pulse while all three of them took turns continuing the kiss of life. At first, Peter frequently had to step in, adjusting Tony’s head to keep his airway open or else emphasising how to make a proper seal against his mouth. But soon they fell into an uneasy rotation.

The calm, academic conversation they’d been having quickly lapsed in the wake of physical exhaustion. Peter didn’t know if it was the consequence of being up so late, or the exertion of fighting Beck, or just how much of his own air he was giving to Tony, but his headache grew worse and the time passing started to blur.

When not performing the kiss, they took to sitting or leaning against the wall, focusing on their own breathing.

“How long do you think we’ll need to do this?” Bruce asked, watching Riva take his turn. Peter leaned against the window, eyes on the snow still falling outside. It had been a few hours since they’d found Tony. The moon and stars were completely hidden behind clouds, but the snow on the ground made the world seem too bright for so late at night.

“I don’t know,” Peter whispered, pushing himself off the wall and swaying back toward the table, “I don’t think anyone has ever done this before. Maybe you should… go get someone or we should —” Peter fumbled to check Tony’s pulse, trying to find a more delicate way to say _maybe we should stop. Maybe we should give up._

But he didn’t need to say it. Because, just as Peter pressed his fingers to Tony’s wrist, they heard a clattering, broken cough in the otherwise still office.

A cough was a breath.

Tony was breathing.

* * *

_The last time Tony faced Benjamin Parker, the day had been weighed down by heat and exhaustion and the scrutiny of a watching army._

_Now they stood alone, wrapped in a temperate breeze under white clouds. Tony took a deep breath in, ignoring the dull ache of pain in his lungs, and thought the air smelled like rain._

_Arachne always smelled a little bit like rain._

_“Peaceful, isn’t it?”_

_Tony’s gaze snapped back to Benjamin, to focused blue eyes and a chin tilted up, a steadiness and a certainty that felt as old as the land around them._

_Benjamin took a few leisurely, ambling steps in Tony’s direction. He moved away from the foot of the hill; Tony was struck with the notion that the Arachnean King seemed to match the very motion of the world around him. As if the grass under their feet and the sky over their heads and the mountains in the distance answered to him._

_Or he answered to them._

_Or they were locked in a dance, swapping the lead, accountable to one another._

_In comparison, Tony felt sorely out of place. Like he had no business standing on Arachnean soil._

_But then again, he was the invader — the_ conqueror _— wasn’t he?_

_“Benjamin...” Tony trailed off, feeling helpless. Because what could he say to a man he’d irrevocably hurt?_

_“Benjamin, I’m so sorry.”_

_Benjamin squinted at him and pursed his lips, as if assessing how genuine Tony’s words were._

_Then the Arachnean King shook his head and started to walk. When he passed Tony, he remarked,“Arachne hadn’t been to war since my grandmother’s reign. And after that ugliness, that bloodshed, the Parker family promised to always —_ always — _pursue peace.”_

_Tony turned away from the hill to follow Benjamin. He looked up, trying to discern north from south or east from west, but even in all this light he couldn’t see the sun. The plains and clouds and mountains all seemed to mirror each other._

_Benjamin stopped walking, his back straightened and he sighed heavily, “You denied this country the very peace it strove for, Anthony.”_

_Tony didn’t know what to say to that. Not only had he invaded their lands unprovoked, he’d ignored every attempt at negotiation. He could blame Beck and talk about forgeries and apologise, but that wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring anyone peace of mind; it wouldn’t make up for the past ten years, or for Tony’s ambition, or for his callous disregard for Benjamin, Peter, and the Arachnean people._

_Tony looked up at the sky again and reached for his chest, thinking of Beck’s knife and slippery words._

_His thoughts drifted to Pepper, carrying Morgan out the door and then disappearing. Was he really doomed to be_ here _with Benjamin Parker? Was this his punishment for all the pain he’d caused? He had ripped too many families apart and now could not spend eternity with his own?_

_When Tony focused on the horizon again his breath caught in his throat at the sight of Quentin Beck. He lurched back a few steps. He reached a trembling hand to his chest as the knight stalked toward him, clutching at the brand and the wound Beck had inflicted._

_Beck’s eyes were glowing unnaturally, and when he smiled there was a glimmer of light glinting against fangs._

_Then Tony blinked and Beck was gone. He gasped and looked down at himself, but the only remnant of Beck was the blue glow of his eyes now centred in his brand. Another moment passed, and that faded too._

_“Anthony, are you alright?”_

_When Tony looked up, Benjamin’s lips were curled into a smirk. Like maybe he understood what Tony had seen, knew the thoughts and voices torturing his mind._

_Tony grasped his shirt in his fist and tugged lightly; his heart was beating loudly, but not fast. It wasn’t racing. He looked at his hand again, at the spot where the splinter had been, and said, “I think I’m dying.”_

_“Oh, I don’t think you’re dying, Anthony. Your body is weak, but Arachnean medicine is quite advanced. And my nephew is one of the best students of it.”_

_Arachnean medicine._

_Peter’s words, choked with vitriol, dredged themselves back up:_

Of course I had a poison. You know what another word for poison is? Medicine. I was the Crown Prince of Arachne, I had a duty to protect my people.

_Tony said quietly, “But even if Peter found me… he wouldn’t save me,” His own voice sounded broken in its bitterness, “At least… he shouldn’t.”_

_Benjamin’s eyes bored into him, like he was trying to figure something out. Tony ripped his gaze away and looked down at his feet, rubbing his hands together anxiously. The wind that flashed past them felt colder now, making small hairs stand on end and sending a chill down Tony’s spine._

_Finally, Benjamin asked, “Why do you say that? That Peter_ shouldn’t _save you?”_

_Tony risked a glance again at Arachne’s king, but Beck wasn’t back. It was just him and Peter’s uncle, him and a man he’d killed._

_“Because I wronged him,” Tony whispered, “Which means I don’t deserve his help — just like he didn’t deserve how much I hurt him.”_

_Benjamin’s brow furrowed. He turned the claim over for some time and eventually said, “You are focusing on_ merit _, Anthony, on what is_ earned _between individuals_. _But_ _this isn’t about what people owe each other. Whether you live or not, this is about a trial of integrity. If Peter saves your life, it will not be because of any wedding vows. It will not be because of your actions or debts or whether or not you wronged him. It won’t even be because he_ likes _you_. _He will save you because he_ can _. Because grace is something we give, not something we earn.”_

_Tony swallowed hard, but he didn’t feel dizzy or even the least bit unsteady now. There was a current of strength in his limbs, and he thought about Peter standing in his bedroom with the poison notes crumpled in his hands. In his anger — in his justified, mortal emotion — Peter had spat that Tony deserved to die, and that Peter himself was a coward for letting him live._

_But maybe it was more than that; maybe Peter, consciously or not, had understood what Benjamin was talking about._

_And now Beck was going to hurt Peter. Threaten him or Arachne or otherwise find a way to force the Prince to comply with his vicious games._

_“I need to get back to him,” Tony said softly, “I need to tell him — I need to —”_

_“Need to_ what _?” Benjamin snapped, “You need to ‘apologise’ for taking his home? For killing his family and friends and countrymen? For wreaking havoc across a continent for a decade? For nearly turning him into a murderer?” Tony’s fingers curled into fists but he didn’t argue, he couldn’t. There was nothing left to say —_

_But that was Benjamin’s point, wasn’t it? If Tony was determined to apologise, it needed to be through actions as well as words. Peter had negotiated contracts and treated injuries and brokered safety for his soldiers and studied the complexities of medicine, he had put action to his convictions. All Tony had done — even once he’d realised what he’d done wrong — was apologise over and over again._

_But that was as meaningless as wearing a wedding ring without love or speaking vows without truth._

_“I need to fix —” Tony stopped, remembering his conversations with Rhodey and Happy and Jarvis, “I need to make this better, however I can.”_

_Benjamin cocked his head to the side, he seemed to be listening to the whistle of the winds around them, “I can’t be certain, but I think you will get that opportunity, Anthony. It depends, of course.”_

_“Depends on what?” Tony gasped, mind already racing with a list of all he needed to do._

_Benjamin snorted lightly, like Tony didn’t get it, like the answer was completely obvious._

_“It depends on Peter.”_

* * *

Dawn was still a couple hours away when Tony started breathing on his own. Peter was reluctant to move him without light, so he stayed in the office with Riva while Bruce went to find Rhodey and Jarvis and Happy.

Soon, Riva went to fetch a litter while Peter cleaned the office and packed their bags and draped his cloak over Tony. The King’s breath remained shallow but firm, and as the sun started to rise Peter and Riva carefully transported Tony back to the royal quarters. They settled Tony safely in bed, checked over his stitches and vitals, and then hovered together until Peter suggested Riva go get some rest.

The doctor obliged readily, leaving Peter alone.

He pulled an armchair from the solar to the bedroom but found himself too anxious to sit down. He paced back and forth across the room, reminding himself that Tony _wouldn’t_ wake up any time soon, but still half-expecting him to.

That was where everyone found him.

They all came in at once: Happy and Bruce and Rhodey and Jarvis burst through the bedroom door, voices clamouring over each other and asking if Peter was okay and whether Tony would live and what they needed and when the King would wake up.

“I don’t know when he’ll wake up, but the important thing is that we prevent infection and keep him hydrated and nourished while asleep,” Peter answered, “he’s safest staying here.” He shifted to address Happy, “What happened in the city?”

Happy’s gaze was fixed on Tony, his lips parted a little bit in shock. He didn’t answer until Bruce nudged him, but then he clasped his hands together and said, “I — uhh — Davis is in the infirmary. The city’s secure, but there’s no sign of Beck. A guard got knocked out at the western gate, so we think maybe he fled that way.”

Jarvis piped up, “ _Quentin_ Beck? Is he responsible for this?”

“He told me that he stabbed the King,” Peter said, “he tried to coerce me into agreeing to marry him, and then he attacked Brad —”

“And he threatened your life,” Happy added. “Almost broke your arm, and — well…” He gestured vaguely at Peter’s face.

Peter nodded, the ache in his head suddenly pronounced again. Particularly on his forehead where he’d been hit. His thoughts flitted briefly to the library and the spiked wine and the scope and severity of Beck’s threats. He hadn’t just attacked them, he’d been after Arachne’s throne for himself, had meant to twist words and wills and writings to his own gain.

“I don’t know the extent of it,” Peter said, “but he said something about… working on his plans for _years_. I think whatever he was up to, it was bigger than just Tony’s assassination or marrying me.”

Rhodey, Bruce, and Happy exchanged a look at this. Bruce opened his mouth but then Happy’s eyes darted past Peter, landing on Tony, and he shook his head.

Peter tracked the movement, the quick nonverbal communication, but didn’t say anything.

After another moment, Jarvis cleared his throat. “And… Prince Peter, do you think His Highness will survive?”

Rhodey was the one first one to speak, “If there’s one thing Tony’s bad at, it’s dying.”

This made Happy snort and a breathy, mostly anxious, laugh escaped Bruce. But then all five pairs of eyes turned to Tony’s still figure on the bed.

“He’s breathing.” Peter said softly, “His heart is beating. He’s not bleeding out. For now, we just have to clean his wounds and keep him comfortable.”

No one seemed very happy with this ambiguous assessment. So, seeking to give everyone something to occupy themselves with, Peter turned to each man, “Jarvis and Bruce, I need you to handle duties for the King and myself today. I want to be able to keep a close eye on him. Happy, you and Rhodey should throw a wider net for Beck, even send couriers to our borders... and if anyone knows where Tony keeps the key to the still room, please bring it to me.”

This purpose, these jobs, sent everyone off with a bit more satisfaction.

Peter went to the washroom vaguely aware that the sun had risen and he’d been up all night, but he just splashed cold water on his face and then returned to the royal quarters.

The key to the still room turned up before noon: Jarvis found it in the top drawer in Tony’s office. So Peter spent the better part of the day transferring supplies into the bedroom to keep tools and medicine closer at hand.

With Tony so weak and ears so eager for gossip, Peter was reluctant to allow servants into the suite. So Bruce brought water and broth from the kitchen and made a couple trips to the infirmary or the still room when Peter’s hands were full.

Peter barely even realised that the sun had set again until Bruce suggested he rest a while.

“It’s past midnight, Peter. You’ve — we’ve all been awake way too long.” Bruce was standing at the foot of the bed while Peter gently applied a white ointment to the edges of the wound on Tony’s chest.

Peter looked over at him, blinking past the hazy glow of lanterns and sleep deprivation. It was past midnight…? And the end of Selfall, no less. Peter quickly reached to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, blaming the exhaustion.

Stories about visiting spirits on Selfall were probably just that – stories. Legends passed between generations to ease grieving hearts and frighten scheming minds. But it still would have been nice to hear from somebody he had lost. MJ or Ned or May or his parents.

Or Ben… he would’ve done almost anything to be able to hear from Ben.

To be reassured that he was still on the right path. To hear that he had not wandered astray, that he was still serving Arachne to the best of his ability.

“I’ll go to bed soon,” Peter promised when he realised he hadn’t said anything for a while, “I just need to finish this.”

“You could say that about a million other things, Peter.”

Peter pressed the pads of his fingers into Tony’s chest, probing gently for heat or swelling. When Bruce still didn’t leave, Peter asked, “What happened last night? When you got back to the city, and you attacked Beck…”

When Bruce tried to kill Beck, and then turned feral sights on Happy and Peter. Until he’d been drawn back to reality by the intrinsic calm of snow on a quiet night.

Bruce crossed his arms and asked, “Why did you save Tony, when you didn’t need to? Why would you do that after everything he did to you?”

Peter sighed, closed the jar of ointment, and began to unpack clean new bandages. Unbidden, Bruce walked forward to lift Tony up, to allow Peter to wrap the dressing around the King’s chest and back.

Eventually, Peter said, “It wasn’t about him or me or Beck or what any of us did to each other… People have spent centuries hurting each other and they’ll hurt each other for centuries more. If I have the option, or the ability, to heal instead of harm? To save a life instead of lose it? To preserve and protect the _one thing_ we don’t get a second chance at? Why would I ever waste that?”

Bruce slowly lowered Tony back onto the bed, but his eyes never left Peter’s face. Peter shifted under the scrutiny of his gaze and looked to the door. He finished quietly, “A world where people can help each other and choose not to? That sounds like a cold world to me.”

“Maybe,” Bruce said, “but what if choosing to help someone — help _anyone_ — means helping people like Beck?”

“You think Tony’s like Beck?”

“… I think different intentions led to similar consequences.”

Before Peter could answer, Bruce gave a wry smile and started toward the door, “This is a conversation for another time,” He sighed, “It’s just… sometimes our gifts don’t even give the option to help… It sounds nice, is all.”

Bruce stopped in the doorway, “You’ll go to bed soon?” He prompted, “I can send Riva to watch Tony.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, “I’ll sleep soon,” He suspected that Bruce knew he was lying, that they were both aware Peter would send Riva away as soon as he arrived and would stay at Tony’s bedside and, even if he did go to bed, wouldn’t be able to fall asleep.

But Bruce just said, “Goodnight, Peter.” And then he was gone.

Peter sat down in the chair by the bed and thought about his argument with Tony about the poison. When Riva came by, Peter sent the man away. He paused periodically to drip water into Tony’s mouth and check his pulse. The late hours bled into another sunrise and another day.

A few more days slipped by. Jarvis brought materials from Tony’s office to the royal quarters, so that Peter could fulfil duties from Tony’s bedside. They received discouraging reports that Beck was in the wind. Peter tried to ignore sharp whispers between Bruce and Happy and Rhodey. He redressed Tony’s wounds and worried over dehydration.

At night, Peter slept fitfully for one or two hours at a time, crunched up in the armchair beside the bed,conscious of every minute change and slight shift in Tony’s breathing.

Tony still didn’t wake up.

Susan found Peter in the still room in the middle of the afternoon, bending over his remaining lemon sprouts. In his makeshift attempt to care for them, Tony had overwatered the plants, but two of them were still growing sprightly and strong.

Like the King, they seemed determined not to die.

“The Queen Consort was very proud of that tree,” Peter’s head snapped up and his back straightened when he recognised Susan in the doorway. She stepped further into the still room, “It may have been the only one of its kind in this part of the world.”

“When did you get back?” Peter asked, crossing around the table, “They were supposed to tell me —”

“There is virtue in rest, Prince Peter. And if you will not sleep, then those men will make sure you take pause in other ways — even if it is giving you a few minutes of peace in this room.”

Peter swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat and tears burning on the edges of his eyes. Something about seeing Susan, about knowing the lemons were pushing through, about the sheer exhaustion of the past few days — no, _months_ — made his knees tremble a bit. He sort of wanted to hug her, but curled his hand around the edge of the table and held himself in check.

“Did they tell you —”

“Captain Hogan and Mister Jarvis told me everything, and I regret that we weren’t here to protect you…” Susan smirked the slightest bit, “Perhaps a part of me also regrets that you _were_ here to protect your husband, but don’t mind the musings of a bitter old woman.”

Peter wiped his eyes and fought the smile slipping onto his cheeks, “You’re not that old, Susan.”

Susan glanced back into the solar, “Too old for these sorts of schemes.” She said, “But give the word, My Prince, and we will leave again in pursuit of this… traitorous knight.”

Peter hesitated, gaze flickering from mud-stained boots to the scar over Susan’s eye. The Arachnean armsmen hadn’t had a day off, a day at home, since before the war started.

He asked, “You came from the west, didn’t you?”

“Southwest, and saw no sign of him. Though we weren’t on the lookout.”

“Then… no.” Peter shook his head tiredly, the slightest bit of tension which had climbed into his shoulders faded away. “Go home, see your families, stay close at hand in case we do need you. Beck needs to pay for his crimes, but —”

_But Tony needs to wake up._

“— But I want you to stay here.” He laughed, “There’s virtue in rest, right?”

Susan’s expression stayed perfectly neutral, but she bowed shortly from the waist and said, “By your order, My Prince.”

The rest of the day passed as quickly as the others. Everyone else retired for the night, and Peter took up his vigil at Tony’s bedside. He couldn’t imagine trying to sleep someplace else, too far away and wondering about any changes in Tony’s condition.

Peter nodded off after a while, arms crossed over his chest and legs curled up on the chair. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but he bolted to his feet when he heard a strained, wheezing inhale.

Peter blinked furiously, rubbing the traces of sleep from his eyes as he took in the flicker of a dying lantern and the bright beams of moonlight being cast through the window. He fumbled just two paces to the bed, senses burning to pick up on anything else.

Tony choked on another painful breath, something like a cough. His body jerked and Peter mumbled under his breath, struggling to pull his brain back to the present and reaching for the bandages. What was going on? The poison should have left Tony’s blood days ago, so what was happening?

Tony gasped again and Peter tightened his grip to rip the bandages away. Had a lung collapsed? What could be —?

“Pe...”

Peter froze, swallowing a yawn and reaching to rub sleep from one of his eyes. Had Tony… said something?

He looked at Tony’s face, but the King’s eyes remained closed when he took another trembling breath.

“Pe…er...”

Tony’s fingers twitched, and Peter loosened his grip on the bandages. He shook his head, which was pounding now after being startled so fiercely awake, and his limbs relaxed.

Tony was just dreaming, was talking in his sleep. His wife’s name had been Pepper, right? His body was in pain, so it was only natural that he would seek her out.

Peter turned around, intending to curl up in the chair again.

“Peter,”

Peter froze, his hand brushed against Tony’s and the King’s fingers wrapped around his, pulling gently.

Just to be sure, Peter peeked at Tony’s face again. But his face was relaxed, and as soon as it had happened, his hold on Peter went limp.

Peter blinked heavy eyelids and swallowed a yawn. His gaze slid out the window, and then came to rest on the detestable armchair. Even just looking at it, Peter’s muscles protested the cramped position they would inevitably wind up in.

As gently as he could, Peter let himself sit on the edge of the bed. It barely dipped under his weight, but he put his hand in Tony’s and gave a tight squeeze.

With a sigh, Tony’s breathing evened out.

Telling himself that this was stupid — never mind stupid, it wasn’t even _safe_ with Tony’s wounds — Peter swung his legs up and laid down over the blankets, lying on his side. He kept their hands entwined, rubbing circles into the back of Tony’s palm, and settled his head below the pillow, so his forehead was pressed into Tony’s shoulder.

He meant to stay for just a moment, to give himself a hint of relief stretched on a bed, to let Tony settle from his uneasy dreams. But Peter fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

When Tony woke up, he was in the royal quarters, in the room he had shared with Peter.

Tony swallowed, each shift of his tongue burning in his dry mouth. He struggled to open his eyes and blinked slowly, taking in the heady, silver dawn soaking through the windows. The sunlight caught on dust particles in the air, filling the room with a bright, shimmering weightlessness.

A soft breath and a shift against the bed drew Tony’s attention down to his side. Down to Peter, who was pressed against him and fast asleep.

Tony shifted slowly, loosening his arm from under Peter’s weight and pulling him up a little higher, a little closer. The movement made Peter murmur and then roll onto his back, revealing a yellowing bruise across his forehead, too-familiar dark shadows under his eyes, and the new purple scar on his cheek.

The wedding ring seemed to burn against Tony’s skin as he remembered the sick, angry, brief satisfaction he’d felt seeing Peter bleed.

Tony bit his bottom lip, eyes darting around the room. He was never going to let that happen again. He was going to do everything in his power to protect Peter, to keep him safe, to keep him happy.

To not hold previous actions over Peter, or even over himself.

Tony idly ran his fingertips up and down Peter’s arm, never taking his eyes off of him. With the wound in his chest and the stiff ache in his limbs and a rather pressing headache, each breath felt like an effort. But watching Peter sleeping soundly, draped in glittering strands of sunlight, eased the grief and regret welling up inside him.

It was only a few minutes, the light was just beginning to shift from silver to gold, when Peter groaned and he moved a bit more insistently. He opened his eyes and then lifted his head to look up.

“Tony, you’re awake.” Peter’s voice was the slightest bit muddled, still thick with sleep. And his eyelashes were clumped as he lifted a hand to rub his eyes, “I didn’t mean to fall...” Peter trailed off, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Peter,” The sound of his own name calmed Peter a little bit and he stopped moving so forcefully, just kept blinking sluggishly as he sat up.

Peter threw his legs over the edge of the bed, muttering, “I can get some clean bandages, and food, and I’ll tell the others —”

“Peter,” Tony grabbed his wrist before he could stand. Peter looked back at him, swaying a little bit even from just sitting up.

Tony tried to speak softly, so the stress and exertion of his voice wouldn’t worry Peter further, “You can sleep a little longer, Peter. It’s okay.”

Peter shook his head but didn’t try to stand. Tony squeezed his hand tightly, and pulled a little on Peter’s arm, guiding him gently back into his side.

“No,” Peter argued, “No, I’m okay. I just —” But then he yawned, and it took a moment for his eyes to open again. His curls were mussed from sleep and his eyes were dark with exhaustion, pupils wide despite the light filling the bedroom.

“I’m okay, Peter.” Tony whispered, choking down the pain that flashed through him as he tugged Peter’s head back, “You can sleep. You _should_ sleep. I’m okay.”

Peter said something else, another bleary protest. But then he yawned again, eyelids fluttering as soon as his head hit the pillow. Tony kept one arm around him, holding tight as Peter murmured, “Well… just a minute… maybe...”

Tony looked down at the prince whose life he had ruined — the prince who had saved his life.

They couldn’t forget the heartache, and Peter could probably never forgive him for it. But Tony was going to give his husband the very best of himself.

That might mean leaving. It might mean annulling the marriage and removing himself from Peter’s life.

But no matter what it was, Tony was going to give Peter everything he needed.

And right now, Peter needed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Dubiously accurate medical practices, surgery (fairly non-graphic), references to ghosts/paranormal activity.
> 
> Chapter Summary: Peter treats Tony's injuries and takes care of him during his recovery. Tony has lurid and disturbing dreams about Pepper, Morgan, Beck, and Ben Parker. In his conversation with Ben, Tony is given advice about forgiveness, grace, and the fact that actions speak louder than words. Peter, meanwhile, doesn't sleep as he continues to care for the country and for Tony. He tells Bruce he saved Tony because he could, and he does not like the idea of people not using their gifts to help others if they are able to. Susan and the other Arachnean armsmen return, but no one can find Beck. After a few days, Tony grows agitated and starts calling out in his sleep. Peter crawls in bed with him to calm him down; Tony wakes up first, convinces Peter to stay in bed for a few minutes, and vows to himself to do his best for Peter from here on out — even if that means annulling their marriage.
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone! We've only got a couple chapters left ☺️☺️☺️ And thank you as always to my betareader Silver Lurker.  
> Have a good one ❤️❤️  
> Grace


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